Define Vulnerability
by TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: Sherlock is back in London and in John's life, but the aftermath of his time away hits them harder than expected, especially when a new case confronts the detective with crimescenes that remind him of torture and loss. Although everyone tries to help Sherlock has trouble to accept any of it. H/C, Flashbacks, panic attacks, PTSD, aftermath of torture, whump. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Define Vulnerability - Chapter 1**

**.**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**_For those of you who have read the previous chapters / first part of the story_**_: Sorry, if there are a few repetitions in this chapter. Thank you all for staying with me!_

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**_To those who haven't read the first part of the story_**_: this won't make much sense if you don't read the first part. It's called 'Lessons in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability" and is about the aftermath of the torture in Serbia, you can find it in my profile with my other stories._

**_Short summary of the first story_**_: The story starts about a week after the events of 'The Empty Hearse'. Sherlock's health and mind is affected by his time away and John's reaction to his return._

_John slowly figures out what had happened in Serbia and after being totally shocked by what he learns is now doing his best to help Sherlock recover. _

_Simultaneously they are trying to solve a case, which in the beginning was meant to be a good distraction for the detective from his own problems, but the case facts are dark and Sherlock is repeatedly surprised badly by the memories that haunt him._

_John has stayed over at 221b for two weeks since Mary in away for further education. Sherlock struggles hard with his own weakness and suffered panic and distress, he also has a hard time opening up to John again but they are beginning to manage. John even guides Sherlock through restoring the damaged mind palace, his own experience with PTSD helping him understanding what Sherlock is going through. _

_I recommend you read the first part of the story to really know what's happening, because I am really bad at summarizing things._

_._

_So on with the story, sorry for the long wait, real life was kind of hard in the past three weeks and I couldn't concentrate enough to do this properly. _

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**Chapter 1**

**Saturday**

John wanted to sleep in the next morning, but it didn't work, he woke early and wasn't able to go back to sleep. Sherlock's state of mind and his depression were kind of getting to John, Sherlock's behaviour was worrying him, the physical problems that had occurred last night during the chase were kind of disturbing, too.

The more alarmed he was when he heard Sherlock downstairs, the noises were clearly those of distress, maybe the detective was having another bad dream? John fetched his jumper and went downstairs.

Sherlock was on the couch and clearly caught in the throes of another nightmare. He was curled into a tight ball and panting, now and then he made a strangled noise.

It sounded sore and weak and was so much out of character for the detective John felt his heartbeat triple within four seconds, the vulnerability of the pose and the low noises causing him distress, too. Shit, what was happening?

"Sherlock?" John spoke softly. "You are dreaming, wake up."

He felt a minute shake of the head under his hand and kind of baffled realised Sherlock was at least partially aware, or was it a coincidence?

"You hurt somewhere?" The doctor tried to find out more.

"Why shoul' I 'ell you? So you coul' torture me where I already 'urt to intensify the'ffect?"

What was this? Interactive dreaming or kind of a flashback? The former army doctor wondered.

"Sherlock, come on, wake up!" John shook the other man's shoulder. "You're safe and home, this is John..."

"You're a hallucination, I had those b'fore."

"You imagined I was there in the dungeon with you?" John probed.

"No, thought John wasin the dungeon wi'me..."

"Okay." John puckered his lips, this was reminding him of somnambulating, sleepwalking. Which would probably mean that even if Sherlock managed to open his eyes he would sleep on. "So if I am not John, who am I?… Look at me and tell me."

Sherlock slightly uncurled his upper body and opened his eyes, but closed them again immediately, they were dull and the lids swollen. John looked at the other man's hand, it was getting blue here and there now from when Sherlock had rammed his fist into the wall a few hours before. Then the doctor's gaze fell to Sherlock's bare feed and his breath froze in his lungs.

Two of Sherlock's smaller toes were looking odd.

Oh, Jesus, they were both missing the toenails! And another toe looked oddly deformed.

Oh, god. That must have happened when Sherlock had been tortured!

John once more felt sick to the stomach with the unexpected sight of the damage that was not only done to Sherlock's body, but his soul, too. When would this end, him finding new horrors his friend had gone through?

"Sherlock, do your toes hurt?"

Sherlock nodded quietly.

"Badly?"

The detective shook his head. He opened his eyes again, now John saw full understanding coming back and that Sherlock had apparently woken during the last moments.

"How bad?"

"A bit more than in the past week."

"Shit, why didn't you tell me?" John was kind of angry but hoped it wasn't reflected in his voice.

"I hurt you enough already."

"What?… How?…I …" John was speechless but remembered a conversation from a few days earlier. "Sherlock, why are we having this conversation over and over again…? I hurt with you, yes, but by not telling me you also hurt me, and yourself, and that is even worse… Do you understand?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely and John took a closer look at the feet, not touching him. There was nothing he could do right now. Examining them would only add to Sherlock's distress and all he could do right now was give him painkillers if the pain was to much, which it wasn't, obviously.

"What did you dream about?"

"Cellar."

"Was the state of your feet the reason you couldn't run full speed today?"

"Maybe, I don't know, I switched off the pain perception but something wrapped around me after running a few hundred metres and I couldn't breathe and function properly and the pain came back full force when… I stopped running."

"Maybe you re-broke the fractured toe by running?… Blimey, you should have told me!" The doctor suggested. "Can I touch it?"

"No."

"You want some painkillers?"

"No."

"What good would it had done if I told you? You think preventing a toe from breaking again is more important than catching a serial killer, really?" Sherlock was now his usual unnerved self again.

"No." John admitted. "But we could have done it all different."

"But I didn't want to."

"You think you can go back to sleep?"

"No. I'm gonna watch telly, you can go back to sleep." Sherlock dismissed him.

"Fine." John knew this was all Sherlock would say about the thing for now. "There is ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet if you want some."

"I don't."

"Just in case."

Sherlock didn't answer and John headed back upstairs, not sure if he could go back to sleep himself after this new revelation.

Sherlock watched crap telly for about an hour. It was refreshing to see it, kind of. Same dumb discussions, same irrelevant chats, same stupid advertisements and uneducated characters at talk shows. He had seen loads of different styles of TV channels during his time abroad, and equal loads of crap and disgusting stupidity the average TV viewer was expected to put up with.

For him telly was an apprentice piece in deducing and social interaction. He had been criticised often because he knew nothing about trivia and all the daily nonsense people listened to, but it was interesting how different cultures dealt with it all and which forms of entertainment were hip in which country right now.

But he was glad to be back in London, he had watched _BBC news_ from so many countries, grateful the channel could be received almost everywhere in the world, but actually being here again felt good, kind of safe, known ground… home.

After half an hour Sherlock felt sitting up was too much work and moved from his armchair back to the sofa, taking the remote with him. His feet were getting cold and he put on the woollen socks he had found somewhere in his dresser a few nights ago. They must be John's, they definitely weren't his, looked hand knitted.

He couldn't keep his thoughts with the TV enough to be distracted from his own sinister thoughts.

He had dreamt about the hours in the dungeon… those tedious sickening hours when he had lost his toenails and broke at least two of his toes, it was one of the most vicious nights in there he had… He had indeed hallucinated John was there and had tried to flee to his mind palace to escape reality, but somehow his torturer had managed to follow him, he sucked in air with the new pinkish pain the memories stirred up.

Try to keep the memories at bay! Don't give in, don't think about it, don't…. but it was no use, something dragged his mind into the palace and he suddenly found himself in front of the new cell he and John had built to confine the bad memories.

He took a look inside carefully, the swarm of bad thoughts was pulsing in a threatening lava glow, red and black, in the middle of the room, it hadn't moved and besides the colour looked the same.

Good, that was good. He relaxed a bit. So what was the problem? He hadn't wanted to come in here, but since he was already there… He turned towards the stairs that would lead to the normal hallways of the palace, out of the bad memory-areas.

He had just placed his right foot at the first step of the stairs when a bloodcurdling scream disrupted the silence.

He stood frozen. There were people?

Who'd get in here? Burglars? Ridiculous! There _was_ no getting 'in' here, the palace had no 'outside', so how could anybody break in? There usually were only friends or images of people he wanted or needed in here.

This was ridiculous! He headed upstairs, away from the noise. John had told him to stay away from problems in the palace when he was alone, and this time it would probably be a good idea to listen to him.

He was always alone in here, it was _his_ mind… faulty mind. Maybe because it was failing that he was not any longer alone, maybe that was part of the malfunction, his subconsciousness running wild once more. Had the damage kind of created a breach?

He reached the top of the stairs and stood rooted to the spot when he saw the massive Victorian railing widened and was connected to a full corridor high and wide row of bars. Like someone had transformed the whole lower level into an antique looking prison.

The thing was there was no door that would allow him to pass the barrier.

This was impossible, how did this get here?

There was no other way up. Why hadn't he thought of building in fire escapes or something… but even if he had, bars appearing out of nowhere would have probably blocked them, too. But… he usually transferred from one level to another without using any stairs, he tried now to go to the second level.

The only thing that happened when he concentrated was that he was experiencing a headache. This was so very ridiculous!

A siren started to blare in the distance and he frowned, he had never heard that one before. Maybe he should take a look.

Were the persons he had heard responsible for the bars?

Were they still here?

He closed his eyes and listened… and then he heard something odd, a gurgling noise, it was far away but sounded ominous, where did it came from? Focus!

When he hurried down the stairs he once more remembered John had said not to go investigate, just get out of there, but he felt incompetent, weak and useless enough, if he now started running away from his own mind he'd soon be even more a mess than he already was, faltering with the tiniest problems. There was no way he wanted to live like that! The mere thought was disgusting!

He ran down the stairs and when he reached the bottom of the first underground level he found the second one was already completely flooded. The water had a muddy brown colour and rose at an alarming speed. Moriarty would drown and the swarm would drown and _he_ would drown, too!

The water rose and he took a step backwards up the stairs. If this would continue to rise the two landings or higher the bars would prevent him from escaping, or had Moriarty escaped and built the bars to punish him for having him incarcerated?

He was paralysed with confusion until the water actually washed around his feet and the first thing he registered was hot orange and white pain! What was causing the sudden pain? Disorientation.

He stumbled backwards but slipped in the muddy liquid and when he fell his left calf came into contact with the water. It was hot!

He managed to crawl up the stairs in startled and in pain.

"Sh'l'ck."

That was a whisper, a voice? Was it really here? It might have been only the sound of the water.

He tried to get out of his hot wet shoes who attached the burning liquid to his feet.

But the water seemed to rise with more speed now and he had barely managed to get out of the shoes and socks when the hot liquid came near his foot again, he shifted up the stairs, knowing he must be nearing the bars. No chance to swim at all in this water!

Then it happened, his back made contact with the solid metal of the bars and he sucked in air in horror.

He remembered that feeling, it was one of the worst ones he had ever met.

"Sherlock!" That was clearly a voice! Was Moriarty here? The gurgling made it unrecognisable.

He turned around to see if there was someone on the other side of the bars.

None, the landing was empty.

He felt the hot liquid touch his bare soles and cried out in pain, struggling to get away.

"Shit, Sherlock, stop it!"

He jerked his eyes open and stared into John's face. How did he get into the palace?

"Blimey, Sherlock, wake up!… Come on!" John shook him, they were in the flat, he was sitting on the ground in front of the right side of the sofa, the blanket and some pillows on the cold floor.

"That's it, look at me!" John urged and touched him.

He tried to pull his hands away.

"No…" his voice was raspy and shaking and he couldn't grasp what had just happened. Dreams were not like that. Had he been in his mind palace? Was it really _that_ damaged?

"I need to go back, don't touch me!" He tried to struggle out of John's hold on his shoulder and his wrist. "Something's wrong."

"Go back? Where?"

"Mind Palace."

"You have been dreaming."

"No… no… I… I need to…"

"No, not now, out of the question!… I couldn't wake you for minutes, I can't risk you going there and get lost or worst. Stay with me."

Sherlock twisted himself free and turned away, closing his eyes, he needed to go back and make sure. He willed himself to the top of the stairs, one landing above where the bars were, to a position from where he could look down on them within a few steps but was safe to run away fast, too.

When he opened his eyes in the palace he was in the exact place where he wanted to be, his heart was beating like mad and with shaky legs he moved downstairs to the landing to see the position where the bars had been.

But in mid movement he needed to pause for a moment to calm down his breathing because he was gasping for air. Listen! No sounds of water. He held his breath to hear better for a moment, still no water. He peered around the corner, over the railing to were the bars should have been.

They were gone! Sherlock exhaled and looked closer, no water, no mud, no steam, nothing. Everything looked normal.

In sudden exhaustion he sagged down to sit on the stairs for a moment, he felt sick and tired. Maybe he should go back.

He opened his eyes in the flat. John was kneeling besides him and examining him, taking his BP. Sherlock didn't struggle, just tried to breathe normally.

"What happened?" John asked as soon as he saw that the detective was back with him.

Sherlock just shook his head. Did this mean it really all had been a dream? Or had the reality of the mind palace mixed with a dream? Or maybe he had just dreamt about the palace?

"The mind palace… or something in it tried to kill me."

"Blimey. How?"

"Simmering water flooding the level where I was, first basement level, the only exit blocked by an iron lattice wall."

"Oh. Not good. Did it burn you?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Where?"

"Feet."

"Okay, come on, let's get you off the floor. You need some tea and something to eat, believe me you'll feel better. I did extended tests while you were away on how not eating makes your depressions even worse." John's tone was clearly carrying sarcasm and maybe a bit self-criticism.

John vanished into the kitchen and Sherlock stood up slowly. A moment later he heard John fill the kettle and prepare some cups.

He had just managed to get his breathing back to normal when he heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs.

"Boys?" She asked softly before poking her head inside the door. "Good morning!" She continued when she saw Sherlock was awake and heard John answer from the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too, Mrs H."

"Sherlock, you look awful, dear! Did you eat at all in the past three days?"

Sherlock only mumbled something and she turned on the spot and headed back down the stairs. "Let me get some pastries for you guys."

Two minutes later she came back with a large plate of Sherlock's favourite pastries in two variations.

.

John made them all sit at the dinner table and have the first (almost) normal meal there together again, including Sherlock reading the paper and Mrs Hudson bringing them up to date on trivia about the neighbours. The doctor expected Sherlock to stop her but he just listened and even managed to react here and there or make a comment as if he had actually listened.

When Sherlock headed to the shower over an hour later and John and the landlady were alone she beamed at him.

"He ate!… and he talked… though I'm not sure he listened, but this is good, isn't it?"

"Yes. Guess so." John smiled at her.

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_A/N:_

_For all the followers from the first story: don't forget to create a new bookmark/follow-thing to stay tuned, I will mark the first story as complete now._


	2. Chapter 2

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 2**

**Saturday evening**

Friday night John and Sherlock had agreed with Lestrade that they'd meet at Scotland Yard to make their statements in the afternoon. Interviewing the victim would have to wait at least until the Sunday morning. They wanted to give her time to recover and Lestrade wanted to keep the case away from the public to protect her. They also wanted to let the killer believe he was safe, so secrecy about the events was essential. John had promised to make sure Sherlock would not sneak into the victim's hospital room and try to interview her before that.

John planned to pick up Mary in the late afternoon, her lessons had been done Friday afternoon, but she had planned to stop by a friend who lives in a seaside town where she needed to change trains anyway and she wanted to take the chance to see her since she was already there.

After their late breakfast Mrs Hudson had provided John showered and Sherlock did too an hour later. He didn't allow John to let him take a look at his feet, though John tried to convince him taping a broken toe would reduce the pain. Sherlock was not very communicative and John got the slight feeling Sherlock was quite distant. At least Sherlock had managed to sleep, that was a good.

John sat down in front of the telly with his laptop. He watched the end of a documentary, waiting for the local news, while he typed a new draft for a blog entry. The news had just started when the door to Sherlock's room opened and the detective scuffled into the living room, in a fresh dressing gown and with damp hair.

"Tea?"

"There's hot water in the kettle and coffee in the machine. You just had two mugs for breakfast." John looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Did Lestrade text?" Sherlock ignored him.

"No."

The news report had started with a feature about the anti-terrorism bill but now the next topic started and in the background of the reporter the picture of a young woman was shown - Sandra Herman, John turned up the volume.

"Sherlock, news report about the case."

Sherlock was next to him within seconds.

"...the young woman was found in the morning, drugged in her apartment. The circumstances of her assault are still unknown and it will take probably several days until she has recovered enough to be interviewed by the police." The only thing the report showed was an outside view of the flat building at daylight and then the outside of the hospital.

"Lestrade obviously didn't manage to keep everything important out of the media."

Sherlock looked annoyed about that.

"The police has not yet given any information about what really happened, though it might be the case that this isn't the first incident were victims were drugged in their apartments. Thus might be related to a case we reported about several days ago, where a victim was found dead, but Detective Inspector Lestrade was not free to talk to the media yet." A short sequence of Lestrade was shown when he came out of a building and reporters tried to get anything from him, but he just raised his hands, excused himself and entered his car. "Stay tuned for updates on the case." The reporter completed the feature.

"Shit, how did they know about it?" John cursed.

"Leak, obviously." Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen.

"Right. Not what I meant."

"The plan was to not inform the public before Tuesday." Sherlock had come back and sat down at the dinner table with a cup of coffee, booting his laptop.

Two hours later John felt the leaden tiredness creep into him again and he decided to take another nap, the previous nights had tell on him.

In the early afternoon John woke up briefly and went to the bathroom. He found Sherlock sleeping on the couch, several used mugs and the violin on the coffee table, together with evidence pictures and documents from the case. John covered him with a blanket and went back to bed.

In the late afternoon Sherlock woke him by yelling his name up the stairs.

"We need to go to Scotland Yard, get up!"

"Shit, what time is it?" John mumbled.

"Sixteen fourteen." Sherlock replied, though John was sure Sherlock couldn't have heard him.

"I need to pick Marry up from the station at seventeen fifteen." John yelled back. "Would it be okay if I drop you off at Scotland Yard before?"

"They need your statement, too."

John finished dressing and left his room.

"I'll be right there after I picked her up. Text me if there is something important they need to know." John passed Sherlock at the their landing. He wanted Sherlock to start texting again, the exercise would improve the agility of his fingers.

Sherlock stayed behind for a moment.

"You really need to pick Mary up? She could call a cab."

"I do. She will come to Baker Street with us."

Sherlock showed no reaction to the statement. John had wondered before if it would be better to ask him, but had decided he'd just inform Sherlock. Sherlock did the same with him, so once he should be allowed to do it, too. He knew it was a huge intrusion, but doubted Sherlock would see it like this, and he couldn't allow him to fall deeper into bad moods which meant he shouldn't be alone. Because Sherlock had always become worse after being alone for too long when in a bad mood already John knew.

"I haven't seen her in days and I miss her, I'd really love to see my future wife and ask her how she is and what she learned and how she feels." John explained.

"I thought you knew her. Shouldn't you be able to tell."

"Yeah, I can, but it'll cause me a lot pleasure to hear her say it and therefore I plan to ask her."

"Seriously? People really waste time on that? I thought it was the nice thing in relationships to _not _need to talk because one knew what the other one meant… or wanted or whatever."

"Yes, of course. But showing interest is also a way to worship a person that means a lot to you." John explained the obvious, rubbing his eyes.

"So letting her explain the obvious is a form of affection?"

"Yeah, if you want to put it that way."

"I see."

"Do you?" John passed him and went to make some more coffee. His diurnal rhythm was blown to hell after only living with Sherlock for some days, again.

"Is that why you asked me what I did during the last two years?"

John froze in the entrance to the kitchen. "Yes… no… There's a difference… I…"

"Explain." Sherlock ordered.

"Okay, this is only an explanation between the two of us, repeating it to other people would be really impolite towards me and towards them, got that?"

"Yess?!" Sherlock agreed, confused.

"Okay, explanation… We have been through this, but obviously you need a bit of a brushing up-course: Not-asking is not-caring… Asking is to be polite… Wanting to actually know is to be polite with caring a bit… and asking for details is... love, or in our case… friendship… The need to _really_ know what happened in detail is affection, a real need, because you feel like what effects the other person effects you, too, so you need details in earnest. Like if something would happen to Mrs Hudson it would affect you… and you'd really need to know the details."

"Oh…."

"The levels of honesty that you answer with need to be in relation to the affection of the person who asks the question. So you don't answer honestly when you are asked for politeness, like by strangers for example,… and you answer really honest when the person asking loves you, like a friend or lover, makes no difference with this topic."

"Uhm, you mean…" Sherlock seemed kind of unsettled with this, out of the blue from John's point of view.

"Sherlock, you knew this, I told you before, why do you act as if this is news to you?"

"I… I might have deleted it."

"What?" John knew this argument, but… "Why?"

"I… couldn't afford real politeness and friendliness in the past years, obvious, when interacting with spies and killers, isn't it?"

"Oh,… you mean you haven't had any kind of nice human interaction on the road?" John had to admit he was a bit curious if Sherlock had made new friends, and then asked himself in horror if he was jealous once more for people having known Sherlock was still alive when he didn't.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want any interaction with strangers, and the kind of contact I wanted was not available, because I was dead to the people I wanted contact with... Of course I did interact when the need to get information or equipment arose, but it was a not by choice but by necessity." Sherlock was a bit impatient, about having to state the obvious, he intentionally tried to keep it superficial.

But John understood, the detective meant with him and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. That was a compliment and an obvious message that he had missed them, right?

"Can we go now?" Sherlock started to prepare to leave and John joined the activities.

.

John dropped Sherlock off in front of Scotland Yard and headed for the station to pick Mary up. They barely had time to greet each other when John received a text from Sherlock that explained John's presence was needed. John was not happy, he'd like to spend some time with Mary and just talk, but she seemed curious to see Scotland Yard from the inside and explained she'd like to go. So they headed back there.

.

When they reached New Scotland Yard there was a lot of chaos and distress in the air and John was a bit surprised, not what he had expected on a Saturday evening.

"What's happening?" He asked Sherlock as soon as he had spotted him standing in the middle of all the careering about policemen and detectives and forensics. Sherlock stood there like a pillar, waiting for something interesting to happen, perhaps? His face showed an odd mixture of forced calm and delight.

"What are you doing?" John asked louder when Sherlock failed to reply.

"Breathing it in." Sherlock replied in a low voice that was almost swallowed by the noise.

John masked his grin with his hand. This was good, especially when Sherlock was able to relish this instead of yelling at everybody for being dumb.

"The leak sort of caused a major crisis. This might blow the whole investigation back to square one… I mean even more than we managed to blow it by letting him get away." Sherlock's tone was sarcastic now.

Lestrade appeared out of nowhere and signalled them to come to his office.

Mary, Sherlock, John, Donovan and Lestrade entered the DI's office and everyone except Sherlock sat down.

While John explained what had happened during the chase and how he had lost the suspect,

Mary listened with interest, she had not heard of the latest events. Though John had called her almost every day and told her what they had done the recent calls had been brief because they both were tired from their days.

Lestrade wasn't really concentrated and neither was Sally. She wrote loads of notes, but probably only because she needed to remember later because her mind was in fact occupied with the more pressing thing: the leak.

.

Only half an hour later Sherlock raised his hand for a cab in front of Scotland Yard while John and Mary whispered niceties into each other's ear. It took Mary's comment to remind the men that John had actually arrived with a car. Sherlock started to giggle and John joined him, it was ridiculous.

"Habit." Sherlock smiled at Mary and they headed towards the garage.

When they reached the car Sherlock sat in the back and John asked himself if this was odd. Well, it alone wasn't, but Sherlock was withdrawn today. He didn't talk much and John felt kind of left out. Was Sherlock distancing himself from John because fearing John would leave him again, now that Mary was here? John decided to keep a close eye on that. He had asked Mary to stay with them at 221b to prevent Sherlock from feeling left out, and to make to make sure he wouldn't spiral any deeper into depression… and to be near if Sherlock needed help.

John talked to Mary all the way back, which in fact took almost thirty-five minutes. Sherlock said nothing. The doctor briefly asked himself if he had retreated into his own thoughts or if he was listening. How often had Sherlock really been with a couple, what did he know about this kind of relationship? Maybe his only comparison were his parents. If he was honest with himself he was a bit anxious about the whole thing. Would Mary still like Sherlock after she had spent a week in the same flat with them… and would she still like John, of course she would, but would it cause trouble in their relationship? Sherlock could be a bit possessive. But Mary was tough and she had heard a lot about Sherlock before.

Mary talked about her week and what she had learned and when she finally asked Sherlock if it was okay for him that she came with them to Baker Street Sherlock immediately answered.

"221b is John's home. You are an extension of John, aren't you?"

Sherlock's phone beeped.

"I am." She answered before John had really and truly understood the meaning of the question.

"Then it's kind of your home, too." Sherlock said absently, now scrolling through his text messages.

Mary looked at John, who raised his eyebrows, she beamed with pride for the acceptance she was given. John had not dared to hope Sherlock would accept the hole thing this easy.

The doctor needed quite a moment to grasp this was really profound and didn't manage to overcome his speechlessness. About three minutes later Mary made a gesture like eating and John nodded.

"I shopped pasta and mozzarella, but we can order something, what would you like?" His question was directed at Mary but Sherlock was the one answering first.

"Chinese."

"Chinese." Mary said almost the same moment.

"Okay, guess I am outnumbered." John smiled at her.

.

The rest of the evening was quiet.

They ate and went to bed early.

John was not sure if Sherlock went to bed, but he had changed into his pyjamas and his dressing gown after the meal and at least looked as if he would when Mary and him said good night and headed upstairs.

...

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Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 3**

**Sunday**

When John stood up Mary muttered she wanted to go back to sleep for a bit and he should have a shower first.

He decided to check on Sherlock first, make sure he wasn't wandering around the flat in a sheet or dissecting something on the kitchen table. He had warned Mary that he had done that in the past, but he wanted to spare her that as a first sight on a Sunday morning.

He found Sherlock sound asleep in his dressing gown with socks on, but on his bed for a change. A blister of paracetamol on the bedside table, two pills missing. John assumed his feet and hands had bothered him.

He closed the door to the kitchen as quiet as possible and made coffee and toast for breakfast.

When he sat down in front of the telly with his ready to eat toast on a plate he wondered if they'd ever return to the habit of eating at the dining table like decent people, not like a student or bachelor having unhealthy food while learning or working. He had missed the ritual of their common meals, too, though Sherlock - most of the times - had only joined him for tea or coffee in the morning.

.

Almost two hours later Mary joined him in the living room. She was already dressed and kissed him as a greeting. A few moments later she joined him with her own plate and coffee watching the news.

"Nothing about the case today." John explained her. He was curious why. Had SY found the leak? Why weren't the reporters just repeating what had happened and added that there were no news, like they used to do? But soon he found out. It was the first of December and the allowed time for the news was consumed by information about Christmas things in London and several other more sensational reports than a case with no news.

They watched telly, read emails, and chatted.

.

In the early afternoon Sherlock rose from his bed, shuffling from his room directly to the couch, not saying a word.

John offered him first tea, then coffee, but Sherlock just shook his head. The doctor then decided Sherlock was not in the mood and went on with the normal things they used to do.

Mary sorted through her new teaching material and John finished the draft for the blog he had written before.

In the late afternoon Sherlock hadn't spoken a word and finally Mary asked.

"Sherlock, don't you speak because I am here?

"No." John and Sherlock answered simultaneously.

"Then is it you just don't speak on Sundays?"

"It's Sunday?"

"Ehm, not long, thought, probably since around midnight."

"Is she being sarcastic?" Sherlock actually opened his eyes and threw John an asking look.

"A bit." John grinned.

"Why?"

"I was just teasing." Mary vindicated herself laughing.

"Is that nice of you… or mean?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"It's nice."

"Oh, god!" Sherlock exploded suddenly. "I better create a whole new database for 'Mary-communication-peculiarities'. Should have done that before… or better a whole new room in the palace." Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, broadcasting he was unnerved but then closed them again and returned to remain silent.

John grinned, knowing exactly what his friend was talking about. This was actually another bit of Sherlock being as he had been _before_. John kind of struggled with the definition of _before_ and _after_ the fall, but the differences where just too significant. Sherlock was not himself lately and he was glad about every tiny bit of his usual self that surfaced, no matter how difficult that aspect used to be for him in the past.

"Now, what's that supposed to mean?" Mary asked curiously.

"Ask John to explain, I am not in the mood for talking…" Sherlock suggested in a soft and actually nice voice. "But please not now…" He added when John took breath to explain.

The doctor shook his head towards Mary, grinning, and his expression said 'I'll tell you later if you want to know'.

Sherlock never saw it, he was on the sofa in one of his thinking positions.

John wondered if he'd burst out telling them to be quiet any moment, but nothing happened. Mary carefully started another conversation with John and soon they were talking in a normal tone about all day things and organising the week.

.

Sherlock had actually taken his time to listen to them, breathe in their presence, the flat and how it felt when there was life going on inside it once more.

Feeling how Mary's presence felt, absorbing the nuances of her sentences and her voice. Creating a new database, detaching her entries from John's, where they had coexisted until now, creating new links with the doctors entries, though, and making a whole new series of tags that linked those two databases.

Until now he had only linked his databases with John's and also his ones with Mycroft's but never two ones in which neither one was one of his own, needed a lot of adaptations.

He didn't dare to really put the whole thing into the mind palace, the place was still behaving a bit odd, for now only handling and sorting through the database-group of things would be sufficient.

He also kept watch of specific features of John's communication that only existed when he interacted with Mary. All the new information was quite a mess and Sherlock wondered if he'd ever be able to sort this out, but Sunday was only about sixteen hours old, so at least eight more to go. No… Mary was probably one of the persons who uses to sleep… so maybe six. He could sort out the accumulated mess later. Would be some demanding hours, but maybe by then he'd established a foundation. At that point it'd probably be wise to sort some of it into the mind palace… no, he wasn't eager to go there, later.

Mary's presence had definitely changed an aspect of the flat's atmosphere, though he was far from recognising what it was yet. He'd figure it out, it was a dark shade of ivory in colour, that much he knew. The texture of the sensation was also similar to how ivory felt. Need perceived: need for a collecting point for unknown sensations, utterances, sayings, phrases and movements, but his own sensations kind of didn't fit into the group of others, establish secondary collecting point of view of everything that was not directly and actively produced by her.

He tried to relax into the sofa when he distantly realised his back was hurting slightly.

He continued to listen.

.

His storing-information-process was disturbed again when John and Mary made him get up and help them make dinner, explaining he was supposed to participate. He wasn't sure he liked it but it turned out to be quite interesting concerning storing movement patterns.

John bumped into Mary twice, clearly not used to a third fast moving object in the room, Mrs Hudson was obviously slower… or maybe it wasn't an accident that they collided? They kissed briefly and Sherlock looked away, feeling like he wasn't supposed to be a witness. Then it became even more interesting when Mrs Hudson actually came home and peeked into the room.

She immediately joined the mix and Sherlock felt like in the eye of a tornado. The flat had only been buzzing like this at Christmas.

He watched it for a few minutes, but then realised his mind was fading out the voices, busy with just adjusting to the unfamiliar amount of friendly movements.

The urge to go and get the violin grew the more the noise level rose, although it was definitely friendly it was a bit too much.

He finally followed the urge and headed into the living room, away from the kitchen's turmoil, reaching for the bow and the instrument. He tightened the bow and started playing without tuning it, a deep vibrating piece.

After ten long seconds of startled tasting surprised silence a dark green easing of tension reappeared and the noises and clatter from the kitchen continued. Was it right? Was there a whiff of delight in the air? No, he was probably imagining it.

….

* * *

….

_* See my stories Lessons in Friendship 1, Lessons in Friendship 5, Handle with Care (Ch. 13) for more detailed information on how those work._

_..._

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_..._

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. _

_Constructive criticism welcome._


	4. Chapter 4

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_It took me long to finish this new chapter. RL was kind of difficult and I couldn't manage to work on the story because the topics were all a bit too close to home. I am sorry for the long wait and grateful for you for staying with me nevertheless._

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* * *

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**Chapter 4**

**Monday**

Monday morning John and Mary got up early to get to the surgery in time. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and John decided to call him later to make sure he'd get up in time to meet Lestrade at the hospital.

Lestrade had texted them the day before and told them the victim was not ready to be interviewed until Monday late in the morning. He expected Sherlock to be ready to be picked up at 10:00 o'clock.

Of course Sherlock had called Lestrade back and tried to find out more about why she wasn't ready earlier and why the doctors didn't understand this was urgent. He also wanted to know if there were any news about the leak. But Lestrade had been frantically busy with the other case they still had to work on and had told Sherlock they'd talk later.

Sherlock had tried twice again but Lestrade hadn't picked up. About that fact the detective was not amused, which could probably be heard in Mrs Hudson's kitchen very clearly.

John just grinned at him and hinted at how often Sherlock had ignored Greg's or his calls in the past when he was busy and he'd better not complain therefore.

Sherlock had sulked a bit but then returned to explain several theories about tobacco ashes to Mary who was listening as if she was really interested.

So John decided he'd call and make sure his flatmate was awake at 9:00.

They left the house as silent as possible.

.

At 9:00 Sherlock's mobile rang and he jumped out of the bed in surprise.

He still wanted his old mobile back, but it was no longer available at stores and Lestrade refused to get the original one from the evidence storeroom. He had already thought about nicking it or looking for a used one on ebay.

He reached in the kitchen before he knew he was awake.

None was there, it was an empty ugly sensation. This was the first time John had to go to work since… He stood there for a moment, listening with uneasiness for the sound of emptiness.

The flat felt dead, not good. The lingering remnants of a nightmare wavered through his consciousness, there had been death, but other than that he couldn't remember.

He felt awful, more tired and stiffer than the days before. Everything hurt and his mind felt misty. From the nightmare?

"Sherlock?" John's voice came out of the phone, right, it had rung and he must have picked up. Automatism.

"Ja."

"You okay?"

"Ja, mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch."

"What?"

Oh, that might have been a bit rude. Not good. He should go right back to bed, option meant to risk dreaming again. Bad option.

"Sherlock? What is wrong there?" John sounded perplexed, voice raised.

"Nothing, I'm fine. Bad dream I guess."

"What was it about?"

"I don't know, something from the time in Hamburg maybe?"

"What language was that? German, then? What was the translation?"

"Ehm, sarcastic comment about being fine when asked and it is obvious not the best moments to ask. Maybe like 'I'm peaky.' or something."*

"So what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just regret that I slept."

"Okay. Lestrade will pick you up in an hour to go see Sandra Herman."

"Who?"

"Jesus, Sherlock it's the name of the latest victim, are you awake at all, yet?"

"Nooo."

"Then go get a coffee and try to wake up and try to figure out a mechanism that allows you to finally remember names, it would help you in real life profoundly."

"What for? Names are irrelevant. I like Mrs Hudson no matter what her name is, and I don't like Anderson, and I wouldn't evenlike him if his name was Hamish."

"What?… Sherlock?" John was laughing. "Was that a compliment? That's kind of a really odd way so see that group of topics."

"I don't know. Compliments are relative."

"Okay, Sherlock. Your ability to wander off the subject has improved, congrats. I have to go, next patient is waiting. Lestrade will be there shortly, have a shower."

"Why?"

"Oh, Sherlock, don't… just do it."

"'kay."

Sherlock was on his way to the bathroom when he remembered John usually finished his phone calls with a greeting, he should have waited for that. But he continued to head for the shower and finally, the warm water managed to wake him up and wash away the bad remnants of the night.

Clean felt good and fresh, removed the numbness and made him more like moving in reality.

On one hand he felt stupid being waken by John, on the other he was glad for every single tiny sign John was alive and well.

He knew he was a mess right now, the past hour had been another proof of it. It became clearer and clearer and John was still with him. He was grateful, but that vague knowledge that he was, made something in him feel like bursting about that fact, burning and tight in his chest, he tried to wash that away, too, but it only faded a bit to the background.

.

Lestrade picked him up and shortly after that the DI spoke to the young woman's doctor in the hospital floor.

Sherlock stood by and watched. Instead of listening to the boring conversation he deduced the man's activities from last night. Interesting.

"Come on!" Lestrade tipped his shoulders and when Sherlock blinked the doctor had turned away and was walking down the hallway. "That way." Lestrade led him down the corridor, where in the distance another doctor left a room and vanished around a corner.

Sherlock blinked, trying to get out of his thoughts and into reality, he was really groggy today… and blinked again. Something was not quite as it should be. He couldn't… the man's posture was the opposite of his profession. Usually most doctors were self-confident and educated, and their posture showed that, or at least a certain amount of it, but even though his clothes said 'doctor' his posture said something else he couldn't identify. Maybe he should stop analysing every detail that crossed his way and concentrate.

Lestrade had taken him with him, he was welcome to listen and investigate, he should try to concentrate and not mess this up, too. He had screwed up enough things for a whole year in the past two weeks. Concentrate!

"So how are you doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Do you really need to ask this question."

"No."

"What?" Did he mean it was actually obvious or that he wasn't interested, or was it just small talk? "Could you actually ask what you want to know?"

"That bad?"

"Lestrade! I didn't say anything!… Except that I uttered my confusion."

"'xcatly. Room 215." Lestrade nodded towards the room and Sherlock turned left, opening the door three seconds later without knocking.

He entered, Lestrade following a few steps behind him. "You're supposed to knock, Sherlock."

Lestrade hadn't even shut the door after them when Sherlock stopped. Something was off, but he couldn't grasp it.

"Mrs Herman? We are here to ask you some questions about your ordeal." Lestrade started when Sherlock stepped closer to the bed.

Something smelled more like an operating theatre than a hospital room.

Lestrade stepped closer and the young woman didn't react.

She was pale and looked like sleeping, and very small in her bed, even smaller than Sherlock remembered from when she had been on her sofa. His gaze automatically went to the monitor that was displaying her oxygen level and pulse rate.

Sherlock frowned and then sucked in air in surprise, those numbers were not good, not good at all.

Before Lestrade understood what was happening Sherlock had jumped forward and hit the call button. Next he dragged back the bedcover forcefully.

"Shit, Sherlock, what are you doing?" Lestrade seemed badly surprised.

He uncovered the young woman's chest and revealed two stab wounds in her chest, one slightly right from the breast bone which looked superficial, but the another wound was nearby and bleeding profoundly, as if the first try to stab her had hit bone and a second try was necessary.

He had not smelled an operating room but her blood… Cellar… Not good. Sherlock shoved the thought away but had to fight nausea the moment he managed to concentrate on what was happening again.

Sherlock felt everything happen in slow motion.

He turned around and ran after the only one he had seen in the corridor, the odd looking doctor. Concentrate on running! The smell of her blood in the air brought the smell of his own blood to the forefront of his mind, the smell was like in the dungeon, like the blood oozing from him and the dying rat. Nausea rose. No time for that!

Lestrade gasped in surprise when Sherlock passed him on his way out, running after the potential stabber.

This must have happened only seconds ago.

The monitors started whining in alarm the moment Sherlock passed the door. The only way to go other than the corridor was towards the stairways.

Sherlock found himself once more stand in a stairway listening for footsteps.

Nothing could be heard.

He had managed to run down two flights of stairs when he realised it was no use, it would be wise to call security, have the hospital in lockdown and see the CCTV material.

He listened again to make sure, no footsteps, no panting, no fleeing villain. The fake doctor must have already reached where he wanted to go, left to flee through another ward, where his traces might get lost faster.

He had barely turned around to get up the stairs again when he felt his knees were shaking… he managed to grab hold of the banister and knelt on the fist step.

He needed to get up there, make sure security was called and… Pale mint green disorientation swirled down the steps in front of him, the fake black marble mocking him.

Up, he needed to get up!

The smell of blood once more assaulted him, where was it coming from?

Something was off.

He felt sick. This was not good!

Get away!

He needed to get away!

The urge to flee was overwhelming, but seconds later he knew there was something more important!

Remember!

Lockdown.

He managed to get to his feet but the moment he took the first step the door above him flew open and the aggressive sound made him jerk back in surprise. He felt the miasmic panic rush through his body.

Who was up there?

He barely managed to lift his head before he heard Lestrade yell.

"Sherlock!"

A moment later the DI was next to him, grabbing his upper arm.

"What happened?"

"Lost him."

"What?"

"Lockdown… get security! He went down the stairs… We need the CCTV footage, close all doors, have them look for him… Lock all doors."

When Lestrade didn't react immediately Sherlock shook him off.

"Go!" He yelled and Lestrade hurried up the stairs, running back into the ward.

Sherlock felt his pulse in his throat. Uncomfortable.

Breathing to fast.

Slowing down was an effort.

This felt ugly. He was sure it was panic he was feeling… or anxiety? Was there a difference… did it matter? It didn't.

Slowing down to not be discovered in this nasty state would be important.

He forced himself to only take half the breaths he wanted to.

It made him feel like suffocating at first, but gladly the feeling could be dialled down by the force of will.

It took a conscious effort and about six long and hard minutes to make his pulse and his breathing return to an almost-normal state.

During those he just stood there, stoically refusing to sit down or allow his body any more leniency. It did not deserve any for failing him like this.

He felt dizzy when he first moved up the steps, probably with the sudden movement, but the sensation ebbed fast. When he found he clenched his teeth he made a conscious effort to relax his jaw, it reminded him off Mycroft.

It took a few moments to adjust but then he was able to walk safely.

He straightened the jacket and the coat.

He had barely done a few steps when the door two landings above him was thrown open again.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade yelled through the staircase. Sherlock flinched, the echo hurt his ears and the sudden loud noises disrupting the silence felt like a blast.

"Here. Fine."

But he heard steps coming down immediately.

"You look like shit." Lestrade said as soon as he was next to him.

"Formidable observation, detective inspector. Status?"

"Surveillance tapes on the way, Mrs Herman in surgery, Hospital in lockdown."

When Sherlock moved on Lestrade reached for his arm. Sherlock evaded the touch.

"Oi, are you okay?" Lestrade leaned down a bit.

"Why does everyone ask me this?" Sherlock hissed.

"Because you look like shit and everyone can see you're not okay, sorry, mate… I'm just honest..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"…and because some people want to help."

"I hope this does not include Anderson and Donovan." Sherlock tried to change the subject

"Maybe even them, they _are_ kind of sorry."

"Anderson's way of being sorry is actually kind of… disquieting."

"Yes. Definitely. We had quite a few 'discussions' about it. But that's not the point. What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, if there is anything, tell me. You want me to give you a ride home?"

"No." Sherlock's face showed stubborn determination but Lestrade saw clearly getting away was probably the thing Sherlock wanted the most. "I want to see the footage."

"Security is working on it. Let's go get a coffee. It'll take a while to prepare a copy of all the footage. We'll take it to Scotland Yard for analysing it. If we manage to get a good picture from it I'll make Donovan go through the whole bloody hospital and show the still to every member of staff this building has."

Sherlock continued up the stairs and felt Lestrade's observing eyes on him but didn't comment.

Lestrade's welcome when he had come back to London had been the kindest and most welcoming, Sherlock was still confused and maybe a bit touched by it.

Lestrade had never hugged him before. The tight embrace had shown a lot of unspoken things and Lestrade had been so… relieved and honestly glad to see him. The types of relationships were all so different. They all were named friendship, but it seemed he needed a word for every single type of friendship he had endured the past two years for. Language was so very imprecise.

They had a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, but no matter how nice and offering Lestrade was, Sherlock was close lipped and not eager for social interaction right now. He even waited patiently for Lestrade to talk to security later and finally they headed to the yard with the footage.

The analysis in the video lab brought no real new insights.

The man was visible on the tape leaving the hospital room, but he had managed to keep his face out of the camera's view. The same was true about his arrival. He had only spent seconds in the room.

Donovan would have no luck showing the stills the technician made around.

Sherlock watched the few glimpses of him they had over and over again, the technician left after the third insult with Lestrade's permission.

The DI left Sherlock another twenty minutes of silent back and forth, watching every detail, zooming in here and there, he informed him to call him in his bureau when he was finished.

Sherlock worked through the material, glad he was finally undisturbed.

Hiding his distress was getting harder by the minute and took so much concentration he instead needed to do a proper breakdown of the sequence.

Another hour later he was sure the man on the tape seemed slightly taller than the one John and he had met in the staircase. Sherlock was quite sure now it was not the same man. His movements were much more snappy than the ones he remembered from the hallway meeting.

He called Lestrade, who appeared within two minutes.

"No evidence found on the scene." Lestrade muttered while he sat down next to Sherlock again.

"It was not the same men, chances are high this was a amateur or semi-professional hit man, or someone who had been in the military. He was too fast and the fact that he left almost no evidence… obviously he was not doing such things for the first time."

"Okay. " Lestrade rubbed his face.

_…__._

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_*Though I overall really don't like german translations here is one line I need to mention, one where the translation is better than the original line: _

_'From dusk till dawn', the main character just watched his brother die and the female main character asks him how he is. In English he says. "Peaky." As I understand that it's ironic, but actually the pure meaning of the word might have been used when saying it not sarcastic, too. _

_In the german translation he says "Mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch." which means "The sun is shining out of my arse." The line became kind of famous, but I didn't know it. When I first heard one of my flatmates use it I though it was another saying I didn't understand. I am really not good with proverbs and stuff and therefore had to ask what it meant. Well, my flatmates made me watch the film with them then. _

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_..._

_So, thanks for reading._


	5. Chapter 5

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_There are some descriptions of the victim's ordeal in here. Nothing sexual but it's about being drugged and paralysed. Not too graphic, but she describes her feelings. Don't read if this might trigger your._

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**Chapter 5**

**Monday evening**

Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street in the late afternoon. The smell of baking greeted him right behind the front door.

Mrs Hudson was busy, obviously.

He took a moment to actually listen to his body's needs but the only reaction to the smell of food was one of rejection. It didn't smell particularly good or bad, it was just a smell.

His transport seemed to still linger in a slight nauseous mode. He felt the urge to push this embarrassing perception away.

The smell of blood was not supposed to make him feel bad. It was just a smell. A smell he'd be confronted on a daily basis in his line of work, so the last thing he needed was freaking out with its presence.

He needed it to stop it, the odd reactions of his body to things that reminded him of what had happened during the hiatus.

He wanted control back. He needed it back.

Repulsion.

He felt weak and useless like this.

This was not a form of existence he'd be able to endure long.

Angry with himself and ashamed of the ugly things his transport threw at him, he decided he needed to tame it with his will.

Why wasn't it working?

He had tried…. Was still trying.

Taming, it should work.

Willing the memories away should be a good coping mechanism, but when he was honest, and he always was… it wasn't working.

He was a mess.

He was weak and freaking out. It was a hateful state.

He felt weary of his own mind and body.

He had been here before, but it hadn't been like this. This time it was more profound than before. This time it included John.

Before… he had hated himself to a point where he had almost killed himself with an overdose… but it was long before he had met John… and hopefully Mycroft was the only person who remembered those events.

Now he felt like the persons who mattered would be better without him. John would have a better life with his wife and maybe kids without his pitiful presence. John was important, John's needs were important.

Sherlock dragged himself up the stairs. He felt tired. Disgusted and sick of himself. But John would not tolerate him getting away again or finally... He couldn't do that to John. So he was doomed to exist through this fully conscious. Because John wouldn't allow him to take something to take the edge off existence. He'd love to get some … not an option. Taking things would hurt John… He had endured the past two years for him; he would make it through this, too. He needed something that would work… figure something out to cope with this… Maybe he should expose himself all day long to the smell of blood to get the neutrality of the smell back. Blunted affect. Would animal blood suffice or would he have to ask Molly for a few litres? The pure memory of the smell of his own blood made the nausea rise again. He reached the flat. Maybe he should expose himself to the smell of his _own_ blood. He'd need an anticoagulant… and a blood donation kit for this. He set a mental reminder to get one later.

He entered the living room, realising to late he wasn't alone.

"Oh, Sherlock, there you are. I just finished making some pastries." Mrs Hudson informed him. Obviously she had baked in their oven. He hoped she had cleaned it before, but it was her, of course she had done that.

He entered the kitchen, still in his coat, the smell of fresh baked goods warm and heavy in the air. His stomach was not really happy about it.

"Why didn't you bake downstairs?" He asked, tension about the unfamiliar scent clear in his voice but Mrs Hudson had long learned to ignore this kind of rudeness.

"Oh, there is a second load in the downstairs oven, I thought I might clean your oven and use the chance that it's clean. It's not that long to Christmas now and I thought John and Mary would like to eat some fresh cookies.

"Hm." Sherlock broadcasted his displeasure. She took a baking tin out of the oven and put one with unbaked cookies into it in instead.

"When will they be home, dear?"

"John's shift is over at 17:00 usually, he will probably arrive here at around 18:00."

Right now it was still a rest of light outside. Sherlock opened all windows in the flat and vanished into his room, closing the door firmly.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and closed them all again.

.

"John, come on." Sherlock had fetched his coat as soon as John had entered the flat.

"What? I just came home."

"We need to go to the hospital."

"What, why?" John had hung up his jacket.

"Lestrade just texted and informed me that the victim…"

"Sandra Hermann! Her name is Sandra Hermann."

"Yes. She is lucid since half an hour and asked to be interviewed today. We'll meet Lestrade there in half an hour."

Mary crossed the room and kissed John. "Don't let me stop you. Go, if you want to."

"I…" John was not sure what to do. On one hand he knew he wanted to go on the other hand the shift had been really exhausting. Too much flu cases, they had closed the surgery two hours later than normal and it was almost 19:30 now. The flat smelled like fresh baking and it was accentuating his hunger even more, he so needed a meal. But he had also the feeling to accompany Sherlock would be important, too. They had not done anything concerning the case together since the chase.

Additionally John had been not really glad that he couldn't accompany Sherlock for the interview in the morning….

"Wait, you were supposed to interview her this morning, why didn't you?"

"We found her stabbed in her bed and she was taken so surgery. Obviously she survived and is awake."

"Blimey… Okay… but I won't drive." John took the jacket of the hook again and slipped it on once more. The doctor decided to try to not sound as tired as he was and followed Sherlock, who was already halfway down the stairs.

Mary stepped in his way when he passed the kitchen door that led to the stairway and held out her hand. John needed a moment to realize she held out three pastries in a serviette and smiled at her.

Chewing, he followed Sherlock down the stairs and through the open front door.

Ten minutes later they sat in a cab but Sherlock did not chatter on to him about the new things that had happened. John needed to ask twice to find out what had roughly happened. And even then Sherlock was close lipped and in the end he only had a vague understanding of the events.

Another fifteen minutes later they walked down the corridor of the ward. Lestrade was talking to the doctor again. When Sherlock and John approached them he greeted him goodbye and turned into their direction.

"Hi, John." Greg greeted. "Nice you could come, too." John realized the tired gaze he gave him held more than just a greeting, there was need and…? What was going on?

"Same room?" Sherlock asked and when Lestrade nodded hurried down the corridor.

"Sherlock, slow and with sympathy please. She almost died again, today… And was probably re-traumatized. And it is her explicit wish to speak to us. The doctors suggested to wait 'til tomorrow night. So we're here because of her doing. Treat her like a human being please, she went through a lot." Lestrade warned while they neared the door, which was guarded by a policeman now.

"Fine." Sherlock sounded unnerved but knocked politely when he reached the door and even waited a moment before entering.

They entered a dimly lit room with a very pale and exhausted Sandra Hermann sitting on her bed with her knees drawn up. She had a friend sitting nearby, they both greeted the group politely and Sherlock seemed to have decided to keep his mouth shut.

Lestrade realized he was the one who was supposed to do the talking; quite surprised he introduced them and started asking the questions carefully.

Mrs Hermann answered with a voice that was still hoarse from the anaesthesia but her mind was clear and eager to impart what she had to say. She started describing her ordeal after John and Greg had sat down, Sherlock refused to take a chair.

She explained how she had come home from work and then went to get the shopping done. On her way home she had felt as if someone was watching her but whenever she had turned around none was there. She had had the feeling for days but always thought she was imagining it. She described how glad she had been to arrive the safety of home, only to be grabbed from behind when she was sorting the groceries into the fridge. He had grabbed her and threatened to stab her in the heart if she tried to fight him.

"He made me lie on the sofa and then pinioned and blindfolded me. At that point I was hoping he'd just rob me and leave, but he injected me with a drug and I passed out only moments later… When I came to I was dressed differently… but in my own clothes and in a relaxed pose on the sofa, but I couldn't move. He was… he was moving around my flat as if he had lived there for years… and… and as if we had known each other for years… He talked to me as if we were friends or… I don't know, it was really odd."

"…as if you were lovers?" Lestrade asked carefully.

"No. He was really freaky and did a lot of bad things, but he never behaved in a way that was in any way sexual."

John saw she was even paler now and tried to soothe her her.

"You are really tough to talk about this in such a disciplined manner, you're doing great."

Behind him he heard Sherlock huff, displeased and wondered briefly about what, she was talking fast and not really emotional, at least not until now.

"No, it was really odd. He behaved as if I was a good friend, talked to me, entertained me, watched TV with me… but he repeatedly drugged me through an IV and…."

"Did he handle things as if he was a medical professional?… I mean was he doing that with the ease of a person who had done it a hundred times?"

"Hm…. Not really. I mean he had practice, but I had a lot of bruises around the puncture site and it hurt when he missed. He tried again and again, but the day before you found me… Many many thanks… thanks for saving me… I was so glad I… I almost lost it when you came in because I thought it was him, coming back, and I could feel he was different that night…. And I feared I was going mad after so many days and… "

Now John saw tears in her eyes for the first time, but her voice stayed firm.

Her friend stroked her upper arm briefly but she didn't stop.

"The day before you found me he removed the IV and I… he started injecting me on very odd places with higher doses and I wasn't allowed to have break from the drug any longer… I was before; I could go to the bathroom and wash and have something to eat when it had worn of. He usually waited for the drug to wear off and I was allowed to do all those things but then he… he used place like between my toes or at my ankle to inject me and I slept more than before… it felt horrible, being paralysed was really really dreadful and… " Now her voice stopped with the emotions and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

"If you need a pause we can wait outside." Lestrade offered.

"No." She murmured and her friend stood up and hugged her. The second woman talked to her briefly in a low voice, obviously she had not heard about what had happened in detail and was quite shocked.

"He was a bit of a freak. Extremely neat but very peculiar… and he did loads of things in odd ways. He always ate that extremely cheap pizza in all variations but not with seafood… and he smelled like my grandfather's aftershave. I think… he had aspects of a child in his behaviour but also those of an older man. He was incalculable, mean and threatened me…. I think he liked to have the power over me, but also to take care of me."

"How did he take care?" Lestrade asked.

"I… He…" She gulped. "I had an accident when he told me he'd give me another dose of the drug… it was when the first dose had worn off and I already had a panic attack from not being able to move after waking up… and feeling vulnerable when I realized I was paralysed and in his power and feared that he'd rape me or… and… I had another one then and struggled and when he held me down… I… I… " She choked on her own words. "I… It was the most humiliating thing in my life… I had an accident… It resulted in wet underwear."

"Oh." Lestrade just said, empathy in his voice.

"Don't be ashamed, it's not an uncommon reaction of the body in situations of extreme fear, might have even caused by the drug cocktail he gave you." John explained in a calm voice, but frowned when he heard Sherlock's breathing speed up behind him, the other man also became a bit unsettled and moved around a bit agitated.

"I am so very ashamed…" She admitted.

"How did he react?" Greg wanted to know.

"He cleaned me up as if it was the most normal thing in the world."

"What did he look like? Did he wear hoodie sweaters, baseball caps or trainers?"

"Yes, he did. All of that. You saw him, didn't you?" She addressed Sherlock and John.

"Yes." John answered. "But we didn't know for sure it was him." John waited for Sherlock to jump in but he was not saying a word. "We followed him, but he got away. We are very sorry."

"I am so glad you found me… I am not sure I would have survived enduring that any longer. I was going mad with the fear and the deadly terror. Whenever he left I tried to get free desperately. He found my damaged wrists after the first day he was gone and… he bandaged it, took care of it, treated it with ointment… but he heightened the dose so I wouldn't do it again."

"How often was he away?"

"Almost daily… I thought he might have a part time job or something. I really can't say. He darkened the windows and I never knew if it was night or day and how long it had went on. He removed the clocks from the living room."

She also explained that he had been done a daily routing in her flat. Though she never heard the shower or anything. Expect the little drug-pauses, where she had been weak and allowed a bathroom break, on her own. And the man had used her tablet and her PC, wrote new messages and face book entries so that none would miss her.

"Can we have access to your accounts so we can see what he wrote?"

"Sure."

Lestrade held out a notepad and with shaky fingers she wrote something down.

"Ta. Can I send over an artist to do a sketch of him? Dr Watson and Mr Holmes already helped us make one, but they only briefly saw him and we'd like to have another from you."

"Yes, but …" She gulped. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Of course, I will send over one of my detectives in the early afternoon. "How did he spend the rest of the time with you?"

"I… to be honest I was so afraid all the time I… He watched TV, played with my play station, went shopping… I don't know… I was so afraid. And I lost time… the drugs made me sleep for long periods of time."

Her voice became more hoarse by the minute.

"Can you remember where you spent the first days right after your abduction?"

"First days?"

"Shortly after you were taken we searched your flat, because we were monitoring missing person cases for new victims. You weren't here?"

"Oh god, days? There were other victims? You knew he was out there?" New tears accumulated in her eyes and she silently sobbed once. Her friend stood up now and sat on the bed to comfort her.

"Why didn't… None saw anything? Why did none realize?… How…?" She started crying in earnest now.

John could feel Sherlock's uneasiness behind him when she described what had happened to her in detail but now he was getting more and more nervous.

"Why did none… help me?"

"We tried, and we were looking for you. Several other women were missing too and we had all the flats under surveillance but he was nasty, as if he knew, and he made sure none would smell a rat. But those two men spent two nights watching your flat and it was Mr Holmes' good eyesight and attention that made him finally make the first move when he saw something suspicious… We are very sure he didn't assault you sexually if that is your concern right now. The doctors were sure nothing like that happened. So you remember nothing of that first few days? In case something might come back, please let us know. One last question for today: Did he wear gloves or took his time to do the cleaning?"

"Yes, yes, as I said, he was very neat and cleaned up every thing, even touch marks on the furniture. He only touched me with the gloves…" She turned to sob into her friend's shoulder and murmured "I will be tortured by the memories of this for the rest of my life, why did he do that?"

"We don't know, but we plan to find out." John assured her.

"I think this is enough for today, we'll come back tomorrow." Lestrade stood up and also promised her that they would do the best they could to catch him.

John did the same and finally turned around to Sherlock to look at him without ostentation, the tall man was still sitting in his chair looking pale and exhausted… and absent.

"Sherlock, let's go." John encouraged him and like in trance Sherlock stood up and left the room without further greeting, which the young woman would have missed anyway because she was being hugged by her friend who nodded kindly and grateful at John and Greg when they left.

Lestrade closed the door silently behind them and turned towards John. Sherlock was already heading down the corridor.

"How is he?"

"Honestly… I don't know. Had just come home when he dragged me off to get here. Got a brief explanation that she was stabbed and you tried to get a screenshot but… it was really superficial."

"He was alone in the stairwell for a bit while I had the hospital locked down and didn't came out until I went after him. He didn't look good, really bad in fact. I tried to help but he… pushed me away."

"Did he have a panic attack?"

"Possible, but I don't really know."

"So you don't know what might have caused any stress?"

"No. It was all… I don't know, happened so fast."

"I'll try to find out what happened. Is he welcome to come with you tomorrow, too?"

"Sure. I'll text him and ask him to come."

"Good. Thank you, mate."

"Now get after him. Call me when you have a moment."

"Yeah, thanks Greg." The doctor hurried after Sherlock.

.

They arrived home half an hour later after a drive through the evening rush hour.

John had eyed Sherlock carefully who was silent and pale. The doctor needed something to eat and would then find out what had happened today. Sherlock had told him briefly about the case facts but left out his personal things of course.

"Hey boys, fancy some dinner?" Mary greeted John with a kiss when they entered the kitchen.

"You cooked?"

"No. Mrs Hudson did. She said she wanted to use the heated oven and put in a casserole after she was done with the pastries and cookies."

"Oh, great. I'm starving." John was already peeking into the oven when Sherlock entered the kitchen after him. The detective's facial expression clearly showed he'd have preferred a neutral smelling kitchen. Now the smell from the cookies mixed with the smell of the baking cheese and chicken. Sherlock yanked open the windows, he felt obviously assaulted by the smell and headed directly into his room, closing the door.

"What happened, is he angry?"

"Probably he is tired and unnerved and hasn't eaten and had a bad day… and the perpetrator escaped him again… and now his snug smells of things his stomach is not ready for… and he is quite unnerved with the world. I haven't found out what really happened but before I do I need something to eat. He needs time to cool down anyway."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea. Something happened but I haven't managed to find out what."

"Okay, it'll be finished in five minutes, let's get some plates. I have a date with Janine for the movies. She'll pick me up in forty-five minutes. Plenty time for you to solve that riddle then." Mary closed the windows again and stopped in front of John, hugging him.

"Oh, great. I think I'll drag his arse into his mind palace." John mumbled into her hair while kissing her once more.

They ate the delicious bake made with chicken and broccoli. Although they had once decided not to talk over cases from the surgery at dinner or while watching a movie they stumbled into it again. The idea wasn't working really well for them.

Mary prepared for the evening out and John followed her downstairs to see her off and thank Mrs Hudson for the delicious dinner.

The landlady handed him a plate with pastries and cookies. And while they were at it he took the chance to ask her if there had been any odd happenings today, which she negated, so the doctor thanked her at least five times more for the delicious meal. He then headed back up the flat.

He re-opened the windows and did his best to get the cooking smells out of the rooms.

After he had a shower he felt it was neutral enough to make a try to get Sherlock to talk.

He knocked at the door.

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_A/N:_

_Please give me some feedback and write a review._


	6. Chapter 6

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_Dear guest reviewer, you brought my attention to something that might be misunderstood, thank you. So for all who haven't read the first part of this story (Lessons in Friendship 8: Vulnerability): Mary is __**not**__ living with them, this is just John staying over and Mary joining them temporarily. _

_From what I saw in SoT they were doing more wedding stuff from the flat than from John's and Mary's home (none to be precise), so I thought their current living model was John and Mary moving between their home and the flat according to needs, while Sherlock always stays at the flat, which seemed to be most canon compliant. I myself have also problems with Mary shooting Sherlock but this is from the POV from after the first episode, where those events hadn't happen yet. _

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**Chapter 6**

**Monday night**

John knocked at Sherlock's door again but didn't get an answer, though he heard Sherlock moving inside.

"Alright, I am coming in, then."

He carefully opened the door, peering in.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, phone in hand, looking up at him with dark shadowed and tired eyes, he looked haunted.

"Hey." The doctor greeted, trying to sound enthusiastic. The question how Sherlock was doing would only cause frustration, so he didn't ask. He saw enough with his own eyes anyway.

The pile of blankets was still on the ground. John entered and sat down on them and to his surprise felt they were warm, Sherlock had sat there moments ago and only moved to the bed when he had knocked. He looked up at the detective and it was clear he was aware John knew where he had been. The detective looked away.

"Smells bothering you?… I aired the flat."

"Good."

"Stomach bothering you, too?"

Sherlock frowned and looked at him again.

"Tattered with Lestrade?" He spit in a low voice.

"We do not tatter. We are worried."  
"I am sick of hearing the word 'worried'."

"I know… But you could help minimizing it's use with a bit of trusting us and telling us what's happening, it would reduce worrying and therefore us use of the word."

"I am sick of telling and talking and…"

"Sherlock, you are not mad at us for caring, you are mad at yourself for feeling bad and feeling under the weather and not being able to hide it better… and you think you are not functioning properly and you're mad about that, too. I know."

"Stop that psycho-BS, I am not in the mood."

"Er… okay. Let's get to the mind palace. I think the faster we fix it the faster you'll succeed in solving the case."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Yes, you are." John insisted.

"I am not!"

"You want it working, I want it working, we'll go there and work on make it working." John tried to lighten the situation.

"Not now, I am busy. Your tendency to play with words today is not welcome."

"Sherlock, the opening up to me thing we have discussed before…" John started.

"The excessive use of the word 'work' seems to have tired me beyond…"

"So, you have no steam left to resist and must surrender and do as I ask." John grinned, trying humour once more. He stood up again and sat on the edge of the bed to look at what Sherlock was doing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock exploded.

"I am sitting on the bed."

"Get off!" Sherlock's tone had changed drastically, pissed and agitated now.

"Sherlock?… What the hell…?"

Sherlock jumped off the bed and reached for John's upper arm and literally dragged him off the bed. John was taken so much off guard he followed his movements.

"Blimey. What's wrong with you today." Sherlock normally would not be this territorial with his room or his stuff, not even with his bed. Privacy way nothing he particularly needed or cared about, at least not like this.

The doctor tried to use the fact that Sherlock was off the bed and grabbed several pillows from it to throw them onto the nest on the ground. Sherlock seemed to like it there and they would therefore use it again.

"Sit. We are doing this, now!" John made it sound like an order, and not a subtle one.

Sherlock held onto the last large pillow John had just thrust into his arms and let himself be pulled down by the doctor, who had just sat on another one.

With a slightly sulky expression he sat where he stood and stared ahead, waiting for John to speak.

"Sherlock, you know I am not doing this to cause you trouble, I'm doing this to help you."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Okay, sit comfy."

Sherlock sat cross-legged and his posture screamed tension. John abandoned the idea to ask his friend for what had happened today and decided to get them concentrated to get this moment over with as fast as he could.

"Okay, let's do this a little different than last time… The room where we found that strand beast model last time. Is there more? I mean is it a room for your former science projects? Or for technical wonders, or what?"

"John, please get the small talk over with soon. I'm not…" Sherlock started in an uneasy tone.

"Sorry, I thought I could…"

"I know, but it's doing the opposite."

"I haven't even begun." John explained.

"Stop the nonsense."

"I just wanted to do this nice and comfortable."

"There is no nice… It won't be comfortable and you only prolong the bad experience this way."

"Shit, Sherlock… I…" John was a bit lost for words while Sherlock's expression was dead and mask-like.

"Lie back." John instructed, putting several pillows behind Sherlock.

"No. Just elaborate where we need to go and get it over with." Sherlock suggested.

"Where do you think we need to go?… What's bothering you the most?"

"That I'm not able to use it at all without risking it gets really ugly. I need to be able to _use_ it."

"So our first priority would be to make it a safe place again."

"The existence of safe places is an illusion."

"Yeah, right, been there." John was sighting inwardly. This was not a good start, not good at all. "Stop pushing me away."

"I'm not."

"Then stop objecting."

Sherlock just huffed in a sarcastic way to that.

"Close your eyes."

To John's great relieve the detective did.

"You told me before there are large areas where it's burning and others where you can't enter."

"Yes…" Sherlock hesitated.

"You feel up to go there and get another look at the problems?"

"I don't feel up to but I know I am capable of doing that." Sherlock opened his eyes wide in something close to anger.

"Sherlock… please…"

The resistance Sherlock was giving him was quite alarming but not unexpected.

"Just trust me and stop this." John pleaded. He must have sounded more desperate than he thought because Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor and kept his silence. This was also not what John had expected.

The next moment Sherlock turned away from him and rolled into a ball on the blankets, in his sofa-sulking-position.

"Okay, then. Is there a fire on a level we have already been to? Are there multiple fires?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go… to where you remember a fire was last time you came by."

"There's one on one of the old school levels."

"And that particular level is home to which kind of memories?"

"I built it in my early teens. I don't like the level. I don't really want to go there."

"See it this way. Let's try there first. If we can't manage it's better than harming a level you like."

"Huh…" Sherlock huffed. "Information is non-judgemental. It just is."

"Then why bothering to inform me that you don't like it there."

"That's different."

"Really? Come on, just go there and tell me what it looks like."

"It looks like an dusty public school, hundred years without changes… It smells dusty."

"Ehm, why don't you remove the smell? It's your mind."

"Isn't working." Sherlock huffed into the fabrics surrounding him.

"Are you there, yet?"

"Yes…" Sherlock's voice had changed to small and soft now, but his posture seemed to be even more tense than before.

"Let's get closer to the smouldering areas… Describe the corridor for me."

"It's dark and with all those typical dark wooden ornamented window- and doorframes, wall panels, stained glass windows, dirty and letting in no light. Peeling paint is scattered on the floor… The…"

"Wait a second, did this level always look like this or has it changed recently?"

"It always looked abandoned and dusty, but it seemed to have worsened."

"You already made it like this?"

"No… I made it looking antique and… the fire is slowly eating at a wall on the right side of the corridor, rooms are on the left. The area ahead seems to be blackened and destroyed. The glow of the fire is… a source of light in this area…"

"Okay, stop… just stand there for a moment." Had Sherlock moved forward fast to get away from the other topic? "How about we first light the area properly so you can see?"

"Fine… I put on some heavy duty construction site lights… Er…" Sherlock seemed to hesitate or observes something.

"What is it, can you see better now? Can you see to the other undamaged side of the corridor?"

"No… The black area is still black and the corridor vanishes in the dark. I'll carry the light in manually."

"Do you know what caused this?"

"I… The last time I was here was when I tried to escape to my mind palace during… when I was in the Serbian cellar and wanted to get away for a bit."

"You don't need to make it sound like a holiday for me, just tell me."

"_Needed to escape reality for a bit_ then… I tried to reach another level, but somehow arrived here. The act of entering the palace was a struggle. I was wrenched back to reality again and again by my _host_, who was trying to hinder me switching reality off. It probably was against his ideas of making me suffer."

Sherlock's voice was monotone, but the sarcasm the words carried made John flinch.

"He dragged me back to reality several times. The procedure was not pleasant."

"So the damage might be caused by this dragging you back and you trying to stay?"

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock seemed irritated.

"Sounds logical. It's like an opening, caused by one force trying to get inside something, but another force is trying to keep it out… back and forth movement causing fraction."

"He tried to follow me…" Sherlock's voice changed to agitated now.

"What?" That statement and it's tone actually made John suck in air. The fact itself sounded bizarre and the doctor failed to understand the hidden mental equasion.

"Did he get in?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John stared at his back, wishing he could see more. He closed in a bit.

"Sorry, just assess the damage for now. No analysing, yet, just find out what it looks like…" Sherlock didn't react.

"Can you carefully move passed the burning areas?" John tried.

Sherlock held his breath.

"What's happening?"

"Hot… it's hot… and it's dark. The light gets swallowed by the blackness, it's like it can only illuminate twenty centimetres of air, I can't even see my feet…"

"How deep are you in?"

"Maybe twenty… steps…" John heard Sherlock's voice was balking from the virtual heat.

"Do you think you can get through?"

"I will try!" Sherlock's statement was more stubbornness than the honest wish to reach the other side. It sounded as if his teeth were clenched together.

The next moment Sherlock hissed angrily.

"What…?" John frowned.

"I dropped the light, I fell over some debris, the ground is hot, I… the debris is hot… I burned my fingers… I'll try to find a way to get over the joist and chunks… they are not all hot…. The heat is glimmering in the distance."

John realised Sherlock would hurt himself with his stubbornness, just trying to prove to John that he could make it through. Time to intervene.

"Sherlock, this might be a bad idea… Be safe, let's take a look at it from the other side. There is a staircase as well, isn't it?"

"I _will_ get through this!" Sherlock panted but John saw him start shivering.

"Sherlock, come back to me, get out of there, you're hurting yourself."

"I need to hurt myself to heal, that's what you said… To get passed my problems, to solve them, I need to endure the healing, endure the time it takes and all that is hurting me, why am I not supposed to do it then with this? Makes no sense. Shut up."

It dawned to John that Sherlock was not able to make the difference between getting through the agony of healing and the agony of unnecessary self inflicted cruelty… Yeah, what was this? To John it seemed like auto-aggression, but now he wasn't sure any longer. Could Sherlock be right and this was a healing process? Or was he just not able to distinguish between the two? To be reassured of the own powers and abilities might be a good thing, to prove he could weather this? Double edged thing. So the doctor waited, and shifted into a position from which he finally was able to see the other man's face, at least partially.

Sherlock's breathing was laborious and getting worse.

He was coughing and John was amazed and also a bit horrified how the mind's reality was affecting Sherlock's body.

When Sherlock started to struggle really hard for breath some minutes later John decided to finally intermit. He touched him and slowly shook his shoulder.

"Sherlock, get out… come on. No use to hurt yourself… come back."

Sherlock blinked at him, eyes wild and red, then jerked away from the touch, anger in his eyes clearly visible. He was sitting upright now, next to John, who had raised his hands slightly in surrendering gesture.

"Where's the use of doing this when you pull me out and disturb me like this? Why do you start this only to hinder me when I finally do it?" He griped.

"I am keeping you safe, I am not hindering you! There are risks and hurts that are needed to get passed, but there are others that aren't. You need to distinguish between those! This is not good. Why don't you see that?" John answered in frustration, ruefully biting his lips the next moment. He should not react like this, it was impatient and unpedagogical.

"How am I able to know what is to much for my body and what would help healing? All the normal suggestions don't work for me, to subtle or to intense, or nonsense. How am I supposed to know when I'm too aggressive and when I'm right? I both feels the same: bad."

John decided to carefully address the thing now that they were here.

"Your body should tell you. You should just know. Observe."

"But it doesn't and I don't. And don't tell me I am just not listening, because I can observe all I want to something that isn't there. Of course I could do it like in my youth when I faked having sensed something, just to get you off my back, but that intercedes with the rule 'don't lie to John'… and…"

This actually made John speechless. There were more important facts revealed in those brief sentences than in hours of talking. Sherlock had had this problem before. Someone had scolded him for not being good to his body and so often he invented a coping mechanism by concocting something… and he had made a rule that said 'No lying to John!'

"All right. That's good to know. I didn't realize that. I'm sorry." John remembered they had actually discussed something similar to this but it was years ago and they needed to go back to the palace for now.

"Thank you for that rule… Let's see how the corridor looks from the other side."

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows.

John relaxed, his friend hadn't turned away, not run away and not shoved him away.

"I changed position to the other side of the corridor." Sherlock started to report. "The blackened area seems to affect a third of the corridor, length: about a seventy metres. I can't see through from here either, and I can't see the lamps that I left when you called me back."

"Okay, let's set a marker to make sure we can determine if it expands and how fast."

"Done."

"What? How?"

"Red chalk marks on the ground. Several. Numbered. A metre in between."

"Both sides?"

"Give me a minute…" Sherlock seemed to concentrate. "Both sides."

"Okay. Can you make one more try to extinguish that smouldering walls… I know you told me you tried and it didn't work, but I want you to use a professional fire extinguisher and tell me exactly what happens. Just humour me."

"CO2 or foam?"

"Try both."

Sherlock coughed roughly and after about three minutes finally reported the results.

"CO2: just nothing happens… Foam: evaporates, which is totally not how it is supposed to act. The smell is overwhelming and poisoning the air."

"Good. Back off. Nothing changed then to the last time you tried, right?"

"Right." Sherlock said in a told-you kind of voice.

"Is there another smouldering or burning area?"

"Yes, two other levels, it's the same like here, we don't need to inspect is, the areas are approximately thirty and twenty eight metres long. One is on your level and the other one on a level I built shortly after the fall. But… there's an area with bomb damage, just a lot of debris blocking almost an entire level."

"Which one is it?"

"Early cases and information about… several industrial manufacturing processes."

"Like?"

"I don't know, the index is not accessible, too… the fist door says… food engineering."

"Oh,… you have an index then… of course, dumb question. Is it as dark as the other level?"

"No. This level is quite well illuminated… has a clinical design. You'd probably be reminded of Baskerville, bright and everything white and clean and… what is odd though is that the debris looks like from a really old house… like in the wartime pictures you see from WW2 or when an old house is demolished. The stuff should look like metal and plastic, modern building materials… it's odd…" Sherlock sniffed and seemed to inspect the debris closely. "It also… smells like built with old materials… mortar and straw… it…" Sherlock suddenly jerked violently.

And John was so surprised by the actual physical movement he sucked in air, too.

"What is it."

Sherlock held his breath.

"Something moved."

"The rubble?"

"No… something with an organic… eh, no… living movement pattern… a shadow, silently…"

"Where?… Inside the rubble?"

"No… Behind me… Where there's no damage at all." Sherlock huffed, stiff like a board, barely daring to breathe.

"Get out of there."

"No!…" Sherlock resisted. He seemed to hold his breath again. A few moments later he panted "I can't see anything. No-one there… Nothing… I'll check the adjacent rooms."

John waited, in a taut posture, too, he realised.

"Nothing, it's all… normal." The detective reported some long minutes later and John saw him relaxing.

"Er, Sherlock how did you built those levels? I mean is it a lot of work? Could you try to build a new level and then transfer the memories there somehow?… demolish this one." The picture of a broken down building had probably produced that idea.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can build a new level, but transferring the memories won't really work… or maybe… maybe it would if I could built the new level exactly like the old one, but therefore I'd need to enter the old level, which is kind of… the problem."

"Why can't you just transfer them?"

"It's kind of against the principles of how this thing works. You store memories in structures you know very well, in order not to dislocate them and find them fast… if you move them…. It might get messed up… But I can try… If clearing the problems out fails I probably have no option left but to try." Sherlock grunted.

"What are you doing?"

"I am cleaning out the rubble."

"Now?"

"Yes. As you said, the sooner I do this, the better for the current case… this is paralysing the palace. I can't function like this."

"Sherlock, what happened today that is frustrating you so much?" John asked carefully.

"Nothing. I _am_ quite exhausted."

"Now you stop that nonsense. Honestly! What?"

"I got distracted by a smell…" Sherlock explained when John had almost given up the hope to get an answer.

"And?" That couldn't be all.

"…and lost the perpetrator."

"Because of the smell or your reaction to it?"

"Neither."

"What was so bad then?"

"I failed… again… and I reacted inappropriately… weak. I hate to feel like that."

"Tell me what you felt."

"No. I am gonna clean out the rubble."

"Are you trying to work off your anger?" John tried to provoke carefully, approaching the subject from another angle.

"Of course, why else would I do it now?" Sherlock stymied him with his honesty towards himself. The mixture of Sherlock's self-evaluation was a stark contrast, on one hand he was brutally honest and evading nothing, having considered every aspect of his behaviour and mistakes, and the needed changes, on the other he totally failed to discern anything on other rather large areas of topics.

"Well, I suppose… it's a good idea."

"Get a book or something… or go to bed."

"Are you throwing me out of the palace?"

"I'm saying there is no point. You'll be bored and I'm not in the mood to describe every shovel of dirt I'm about to move."

"Right, then… Er… I'll get a book." John stood up and hurried to fetch two cups of tea, a bottle of water, another blanket and his current book.

When he came back to Sherlock's room Sherlock was deep into whatever he was doing. His expression showed concentration and mental movement.

John sat down and made himself comfortable. This could become a long night. He started reading.

When he turned pages he eyed Sherlock carefully, but except that he was concentrated at work there was nothing odd.

.

Over one and a half hours later John realised he had dozed off. He forced his eyes open and saw Sherlock twitching and even sweating.

"Sherlock, how are you doing?"

"Fine…" Came the soft reply, Sherlock wasn't panting but his breathing was a bit off.

"What did you do?"

"Removed a few metres of rubble and cleared the way to several doors."

"Is it working?"

"I would've stopped if it wasn't."

"Good."

John tried to stay awake but slipped into sleep again a few minutes later.

.

He jerked awake what felt like hours later.

Sherlock was curled into a ball next to him. A lot closer than he had been the last time John checked on him. His breathing was fast and he seemed uneasy.

He gently put his hand on the other man's shoulder, shifting to see his hidden face, but it was covered in locks and fabric from Sherlock's dressing gown.

"You okay?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"What happened?"

"Can't go on."

"Why not, did something happen? What did you see?"

"Nothing, just debris and debris and rubble and dust and… I can't stand up."

"You don't have to… Wait, in the palace or in RL?" Had he collapsed in the palace?

"Palace… I can't…" Sherlock sounded utterly exhausted, unsurprisingly. John assumed the man had not slept in ages and barely eaten. He felt his pulse, slow and soft, Sherlock didn't react. This seemed to become a ritual.

"Sherlock… sleep… Just sleep. It's gonna be okay… come on."

It only took about thirty seconds and John felt Sherlock relax abruptly with a soft sight.

John raised his eyebrows.

This was good. Sleep was good, working on this was good, having accomplished something was good… but something about tonight was preying on the back of John's mind.

…

* * *

...

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. _

_Constructive criticism and feedback is very welcome._


	7. Chapter 7

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

…

* * *

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**Chapter 7**

**Tuesday - morning**

The first thing Sherlock's still half asleep mind sensed was the smell… The smell of the flat and his room. It entered his mind and the lingering remnants of his dream. He fought to wake fully and tried to shove the pictures away as soon as he realised he'd relive his nightmare' horrors as soon as he remembered.

Concentrate on the smell again! It smelt like home, the pillows smelled like home and a bit like John… He relished the sensation to be in 221b for several breaths. Being glad that he was _not_ camping in some woods or an abandoned building.

But as soon as he moved, his back reminded him that his body was still healing, more intense in fact than it had been for days now. Maybe sleeping on the ground was just not the best idea over a long period of time. But he couldn't find rest in his bed at all these days. The ground was good, the sofa was good, but not the bed.

He was starting to get seriously unnerved with the queerness his unconscious mind harassed him with.

John was no longer with him, had he gone to work?

What day was it?

Did John work every day now? He stumbled into the bathroom and started the water, as soon as it had the right temperature he had a ridiculously hot shower.

His body enjoyed the liquid warmth.

.

Tea was waiting on the kitchen table and it was hot.

Mrs Hudson had been up here… and he hadn't heard… and he couldn't smell her presence. No perfume, nothing. His senses seemed be messed up once more. Were they vanishing?

Would his deducting abilities vanish even further, too? He'd be completely useless in a few weeks if he continued to deteriorate like this.

Last night he had felt a spark of hope to be able to repair the palace and work on fighting all his problems off, but it was all gone this morning… like air escaped from a balloon.

Why had it gone? Or had it's existence been an illusion he had hunted just to please John? Hunted the illusion that anything might return to normal in the distant future?

He felt tired again.

Tired of everything. Exhausted beyond… whatever.

He stood in the flat and it's emptiness hurt physically. The bad anthracite hard grey feeling pressed down on him and mad him feel the urge to scream. But his mind's urges were getting on his nerves so much he suppressed it, just because he wanted to demonstrate to himself he had the upper hand.

He ignored the tea that smelled delicious because his body needed to understand that it would _not_ get what it wanted if it behaved like this.

A phone beeped somewhere and he went searching for it. The text message it had received was from Lestrade.

_'Ready to go? Will pick you up in 30.'_

.

Half an hour later they were in Lestrade's car and heading to the hospital.

Lestrade informed him that Donovan was already waiting at the hospital and an artist had assisted her and the victim to make some sketches.

"The lockdown had no effect. He slipped away and Donovan was pretty pissed when I talked her into make all stuff look at the stills. The clothes revealed nothing. We didn't even found out how he left the area."

"Maybe he went out with a service vehicle." Sherlock suggested. "You had them searched, right?"

"Of course. But maybe he just left before we managed to block all entrances. We checked for long hours into the late evening and the staff was not amused at all to be held this long."

Sherlock though about that maybe he should ask Mycroft about more surveillance material, but decided against it. He was still very displeased with Mycroft's behaviour and the fact that so many things his brother had foreseen had turned out to be right, and that he himself had failed to see them at the time… John was the most important of his failures. He knew it was ridiculous to be angry at Mycroft for being right, he was in fact more annoyed about himself, but he didn't like to be confronted with it… and Mycroft was a strong reminder.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade brought him back to reality.

"So he is fast, knows the building and the processes in detail and has routine. We should check the employees and former employees, too." Sherlock continued.

"The questioning of the staff on ward brought nothing, too. I hope we'll have more luck with the composite sketch. How could he do this with leaving this few evidence?"

"It's like before… Quite odd. The evidences left in the flat were so few and so… it's almost as if a forensic technician cleaned after him. Is Anderson accounted for?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade threw Sherlock a frowning look, obviously not sure if it was meant as a joke or not.

"Have you found out anything about the leak to the press?"

"Nothing yet. Media seems to be informed but with nothing concrete. Just general stuff. Though I fear it'll interfere profoundly with the investigation… Well, at least people will be more attentive for their friends and family. On the other hand… I'm already sorry for all the new missing persons that will be filed because people are actually overreacting."

Sherlock said nothing to that.

.

When they entered the hospital room, the victim… Sermann Sermon… Hermann… wasn't that a male first name?… whatever, greeted them with a friendly smile, though her face was red and swollen and looked as if she had cried all night.

When Lestrade asked how she was doing Sherlock gave an annoyed groan, well, at least he was not the only one who was asked this dumb and annoying question.

"Manners, Sherlock." Lestrade gently reminded him in a low voice, but Sherlock had already spotted the drawings that were spread over a table. Donovan was taking pictures with her mobile phone and seemed busy sending them.

"Good day to you, too, Sherlock." She said when he stood next to her, eying the sheets of paper closely.

"This is the man who kept her." Sherlock turned around to the young woman. "But it wasn't the same man who stabbed you?" He realised he had interrupted Lestrade and her talking but didn't care.

"Last night I couldn't remember what happened, but over the night the memories came back." New tears ran down her cheeks and Sherlock felt actually repulsed by her weakness. She was _not_ the only one who had lived through nasty things. Why didn't she at least manage to hide it as long as they were here? It was manageable, he was doing it all day… Why was she not working harder on hiding her emotions? Harassing her surroundings with them. He felt annoyed and troubled by her displayed suffering.

"I… snapshots of how he looked like are coming back, but… I'm sure he… it wasn't the same man. That's why I didn't react at first… I was half asleep… and I thought he was… just another doctor… and then, it all happened so fast!" She wiped her eyes.

"You're a very brave person." Donovan had turned around and smiled warmly at her. Something Sherlock wasn't used to see.

"Oh, please!" He muttered, even more disgusted than before.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade looked at him in surprise and resentment. Now he started to feel really annoyed. Why did everyone sympahize with _her_? He had _died_ for his friends! And the following two years had been a time of pain, loneliness, torture and he had lived through some the most horrible things that a person could undergo.

Was anybody honouring that? If they did it, it didn't feel like that at all. They were doing stupid things that were a waste of time, but nothing that helped or did him any good. He needed that it was like before the fall, but no-one seemed to want to assist with that.

"Show her the picture that was drawn from my and John's descriptions. Text me if you find out anything by showing the drawings around. Relatives of former victims need to see them too. Mail me a copy, I'll take care of it."

"No way." Sally disagreed.

"Fine." Sherlock hissed and the pressure the whole situation was putting on him rose… He realised it actually happened, the atmosphere in the room felt unbearable pink and he needed to get out. He headed to the door and down the stairway. No-one followed him, of course not, he was the unwelcome misbehaving freak.

When he reached Baker Street the flat felt extraordinary empty. He stood in the door and watched out of the windows.

It had just started snowing while he was in the cab and the white dancing outside felt soothing and made the world less noisy.

His agitation and anger was gone now, and he couldn't really reconstruct the reasons for his earlier anger.

He had seen victims cry before and he had also seen a lot of them worse and more distressing than she had been.

He needed to think… needed to review the evidence once more. He threw his coat into John's armchair and started collecting all the notes and print-outs he had already collected.

Donovan had not yet send him the drawings.

He texted Lestrade, requesting that he was brought some more copies of all the material they had found. He flicked through all the loose pages he had in the file and printed out some more things from his mobile phone.

.

An hour later Lestrade still hadn't answered and he now had most of the new sheets added to the wall above the couch and the opposite one, the newest case directly over the sofa.

When he was scribbling several ideas onto some post-it notes he heard steps on the stairs.

"Uh, Sherlock. It's cold in here!" Mrs Hudson greeted him. "Why didn't you turn on the heating?" She stepped to the control and tapped at it, shivering.

"Let's make you some tea, you're probably almost frozen."

Sherlock heard her filling the kettle.

"When will John be home?" He asked her.

"Four hours." She informed him.

"That's ages!" He reached for his coat and took it off the hook.

"What are you doing?" Mrs Hudson stepped into his way.

"I'm going to get him." Logical reaction, wasn't it? John wasn't here, he needed him, so he would go and get him.

"No, you don't. He has to work and will not thank you for making a scene at the surgery… besides, you could talk me through it, maybe we'll find some nice little things you have overseen before."

"Unlikely… No. I need John."

"Then you just have to wait, dear. Let's have some tea." She took his coat from his hands and hung it back onto the hook.

"I need him now!"

"Sherlock, come on, behave like an adult. What has gotten into you today? He's at work and you can't just drag him home."

"Why is everybody boycotting me today?" He knew his tone was horribly dismissive but he didn't care even a bit.

"I am not, I'm just trying to talk some common sense into you. Here." She handed him a cup and a pastry and vanished back into the kitchen. The thing smelled good and he decided he could sulk as soon as he had eaten it.

A moment later the doorbell interrupted Mrs Hudson's bustling and she hurried downstairs.

When she back came up she held a plate with more pastries in one hand and a large manila folder with a note on top in the other.

"A young lad gave this to me, said it was from Inspector Lestrade."

The note on top said: '_Don't be such a arse or next time I won't take the time to get you these._' Sherlock snorted.

"You're having a _really_ bad day, haven't you?" The landlady said with exaggerated empathy.

No, he hadn't. He felt miserable, yes, but what had that to do with a bad day?

He has constantly felt miserable for months, now and it had peaked after his return. But saying it was one bad day when his life seemed to have gone bad was more downplaying than he felt he deserved.

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled, now fully embarrassed and annoyed, about his own sentiment and the frail thoughts he was having, like his need for recognition. Those were not really familiar to him, usually he didn't need other people's appreciation, he wanted those to vanish again.

"Uh, dear." She hurried back into the kitchen and some moments later he heard her start doing the dish-washing.

Why was she doing that? She was not his housekeeper.

"Oh, for god's sake! Why are you doing this?… I need to think, stop making noises!" He yelled through the room.

Gladly, he heard her hurrying down the stairs seconds later. Good. Now back to the case.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_Sorry if my English is a bit bumpy sometimes, I am not a native speaker._

_Thanks for reading._


	8. Chapter 8

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

…

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…

**Chapter 8**

**Tuesday - afternoon**

"Hey, what's up?" John stood in the door to the living room, he had sneaked up the stairs to hear what Sherlock was doing. He did his best to make his question sound casual.

"Finally!" Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth and turned around to face him with an angry movement. "I need…?" Sherlock paused and watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Yes?" John raised his eyebrows and waited.

The room was a mess, papers, files and post-it notes were everywhere.

Mrs Hudson had promised him to watch over Sherlock a bit today and call if something was more odd than usual, or if she was really worried about him.

So she had called John and told him about the detective's behaviour. The doctor had hoped it wouldn't have happened already on the second day he got back to work, but better safe than sorry. Sherlock needed to know he was not alone in all this and after what their landlady had told him he decided Sherlock needed company… The fact that Lestrade had texted him before added to that decision, and made him hurry home as soon as possible.

The doctor had seen it coming that Sherlock wouldn't be fine alone. He hadn't left John's side for days, John knew this was difficult for the detective. Therefore he was prepared, had made arrangements at the surgery for this kind of event, made sure other doctors where there to jump in. John had done his best to create a small safety net without Sherlock knowing it.

"…to solve the case." Sherlock finished lamely, no hissing or any other sign of anger left.

"Really, hardly new…," John teased. "I suppose you found something?"

"NO!" Sherlock tore his hair, messing it up completely. He was wearing his dressing gown again.

"Well, what do you want to do now?" John hung up his jacket and frowned at the cold in the room, he switched on the heating before he headed into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"I don't know, I've been over it all again and again and it's just… I can't think!"

"Okay… Er… how about we do it the old fashioned way, tell me… explain it to me… and then we'll see where it gets us."

"It'll get us nowhere!"

"You want me to let you alone with this again? Maybe you can concentrate better without me? I could go shopping," the former soldier suggested, just to see how Sherlock reacted.

"No," Sherlock sounded almost angry that he had dared to suggest it.

"Fine, then walk me through it," John sat down in his chair, folding his hands in his lab in a gesture that was clearly showing he was focussing on listening.

"Victim 1: Plymouth, female, found first, looked like suicide, delayed delivery to the morgue, Autopsy with Molly, wore fresh clothes, oral ingestion of the drug-cocktail, talcum powder, no IV marks…"

"It was the second autopsy, right?"

"Correct, Victim 2: London, female, case start for SY, IV marks on the left leg, first autopsy, we found nothing in the flat."

Sherlock rounded the table and lightened a cigarette, John didn't comment. Everything that would make Sherlock better was okay for the moment. He was really worried and eyed Sherlock closely, who was so busy with the case he was absolutely unaware of the doctor following his every move.

"Victim 0: Bristol, almost buried as a suicide, male, no IV marks but residue of the drug cocktail on his skin, unknown fibres under his toenail, identified by his sister at the morgue, third autopsy, untouched flat, neat and clean, no signs of depression…"

"Slow down a bit, would you?" John interrupted, "I'm not that fast… show me where the evidence and pictures are located to what you are explaining." With this speed they would rush by everything that needed to be though through again.

"The laptop was used… victim arrived in the flat 14 hours before his death, had been missing for seven days, was not home the other six and a half days… he used face-book and twitter far to much… computer was used during his captivity…" Sherlock inhaled the smoke in between the words and that slowed down his speech additionally.

"We should take a closer look at that again, or have you already?"

"Of course, spent hours reading the nonsense."

"Maybe I should read it, too."

"Fine, on my laptop, I used his login, it's quite clear where the killer switched in, completely different writing style, though he mimicked the nonsense topics perfectly… Victim was hetero, not dating, no relationship, had contact to a 'guy4578', combination of numbers suggests the account was supposed to be short living, probably male person, couldn't find other accounts on social networks with this username."

Sherlock ran up and down the living room, forced John to watch this way and that to follow him.

"Victim Number 3: killed in London, found by friend, laying on a couch, looking as if taking a nap, tablet user also sharing her whole life with the world, tablet is missing, at home for 2 days before death, perpetrator ate pizza at her flat, cleaned up neatly but forgot the pizza boxes, he probably didn't stay there at nights, victim was dressed by the killer with her own clothes, no dirty laundry, not assaulted, treated and moved carefully, slight bruises on legs, IV marks by small catheter. Victim 4…"

"Stop…. Did you summarise things that all victims shared somewhere?"

"Yes, it's over there, it's not much. The drug and the use of varying social media. The posture on the sofa and the outer appearance of suicide is shared at least by most of them. I compared…"

"Sherlock, stop… have you considered looking through older suicides?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and then his shoulders sagged.

"Yes, I mentioned it to Scotland Yard, but… failed to get back to them. I guess they forgot… or thought it wasn't worth the effort… I failed to push it… Forgot…"

"Okay," John hurried to say, no need to let him go further down any depressing roads, his posture said enough. "Put it on the to-do-list."

"To-do list? What for?"

"So I know later what we shouldn't forget… Get some structure into this, you know."

"No."

"Just do it, for me. I need this for better thinking," John asked and Sherlock fetched an extra large post-it note and scribbled something on it, it was unreadable.

"Victim 4: only survivor, nurse, missing for two days, Scotland Yard wanted to do surveillance after three more days of her missing, we did the two nights and saved her that way, saw the suspect in the stairway, probably left to get pizza, unclear how he brought her in, windows covered."

"We didn't went after that either, did we?"

"What?"

"How he got her in."

"I told Scotland Yard to tell me if they find something."

"Maybe they didn't look at it properly, did you?"

"I had no… time… yet."

This must be the first occasion Sherlock had said something like that in his whole life. Before the fall Sherlock would have spent the night outside or make John do it with him, but now he didn't. Now that John was thinking about it, Sherlock had stayed home every night since his return, hadn't he?

"Sherlock… may I ask why you didn't drag me out there to do it?" John asked in a low voice, careful not to let it sound like an accusation.

"…" Sherlock took breath and looked as if he wanted to say something, but closed his mouth again and kept silent.

John searched through his memories, looking for occasions where Sherlock had actually asked him to do something or stay or come with him in his former brisk way, like he used to do? He found only a very few small occasions, nothing like 'before', no taken-for-grantedness like before.

John made a decision.

"Let's go." He took his jacket, Sherlock looked at him with surprise, still stricken with silence. He didn't move, looked a bit uneasy, in fact.

"What are we waiting for? Did I miss something?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock blinked and hesitated for almost another twenty seconds, when John did a step towards him, wondering what he had done wrong Sherlock got out of his stupor and reached for his coat.

"Trousers?" John reminded him.

The detective let the coat fall to the coffee table and ran off into his room. John stood in the middle of the room, now his eyes were narrowed in wondering what had just happened.

Get Sherlock to work, that should be the new strategy, Sherlock seemed to run into dead ends a lot lately… maybe because he was so unconcentrated, depressed, sleep-deprived and more than exhausted.

John fetched his phone and called Greg.

"Greg, hi…. Can we come by later?… Yes, in fact, I think you could… Can you try to get your hands on all suicide cases from the past… six to seven months… Which area… maybe the entire UK?… Yes, yes I know this'll take hours, maybe you can narrow it down and leave out all cases where the deaths were preceded by suicidal thoughts and known depression or other mental health issues… We're willing to help to search and copy, but can you make someone start?… I know it's a lot of work… Yes… Okay, thank you."

"What are you doing?" Sherlock came back, buttoning his cuffs, his jacket over his arm.

"We'll drop by Scotland Yard later, let's go."

Sherlock's face showed nothing, not even curiosity, he went ahead down the stairs.

.

They were lucky and found the caretaker at Sandra Herman's flat building almost immediately.

It turned out the man, Mr. Brinks, had been interviewed by the police briefly, they had asked him if he had seen anything suspicious and if there was a second stairwell but he had negated it, they asked nothing further, probably because they didn't want to give any details away because of the leak.

After describing him that the perpetrator and the victim had gotten into the building somehow while the front door was under surveillance he seemed surprised and intrigued, this little detail had not been mentioned to him before.

Before Sherlock could make a nasty remark about police work, John asked if there might be any hidden passages or other ways, like a crossing from another building.

"I'm sorry, I know of no way to get in here yet, except the emergency fire escape route, but it is not accessible from the outside and no-one could carry an unconscious person up there without being seen… And there's a metal hatch in the back, over a former coal window, but it's tightly locked and all metal…. But I'm new at this job and… maybe we should see the building plans."

They headed into his office and he showed them the plans.

It was a mess of old sketches with plenty remarks and additional papers that showed the changes and renovation that had been done. The building was over hundred years old and had been remodelled several times.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. Looks like a duct or wireway, maybe."

They couldn't figure out what the rectangular space, that was at least 1,5m² large on every level was used for. So they decided to go and find out.

They started in the cellar and Sherlock found a hidden door almost immediately, it was behind a small rag, that just covered the whole for a door handle. Since the rest of the door did not look like a door, it was only a small furrow in the wall, no-one would have guessed. This door was not built to be used regularly, it was more a movable part of the wall, made to provide access when needed.

The janitor brought an old door handle that fitted into the hole, it wasn't even locked. When they opened the door it revealed the antique looking scissor gates of an elevator.

Mr Brinks switched on his torch, but seconds later he had found a light switch and pressed it before anyone could stop him.

The elevator was there, waiting. Sherlock took out some gloves and opened the gate. The whole thing was pretty dusty but looked rather good if it was as old as Sherlock guessed.

"Ah, excellent!" Sherlock knelt down.

"What did you find?" John leaned over his shoulder from behind in the small doorway.

"Footprints, looking rather fresh."

"What?" Mr Brinks tried to lean over Sherlock, too, but John gently held up a hand, showing him not to invade Sherlock's private space. He raised a frustrated eyebrow but waited patiently.

"Three… persons,… maybe four…. or maybe… three and one wore different shoes on one occasion… The lift was used at least twice in the past weeks." Sherlock stood up and eyed the tinged elevator controls, forcing John to make a step back.

"Ah, good." Sherlock continued and with one hand pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial key. "Lestrade… I need you to bring a forensic team to Mrs Semman's house and…. What?… "Herman, Sherlock." John said behind him.

"Er, Mrs Herman's house… we found an old elevator that was recently used… No, not even the janitor knew it was there, we just found it."

Lestrade arrived a short time later. In which they had checked the rest of the building for possible entrances. The only other way to get in was a large coal window on the back of the house. It was accessible through another street in the back of the building. It was usually locked, but when they checked the padlock they found it could be opened without using the key easily.

The also found one more accessible exit to the elevator, it was on the top floor, that didn't house any flats and was just two stories higher than Sandra's flat. Getting her down the stairs couldn't have been that hard. Here the door was easier to find, because it wasn't blocked.

The floor was clean so there was no way to tell who had passed, but the door showed signs of use. The hole for the door handle had been painted over and, like in the cellar, it was clearly visible that someone had inserted a handle, used it and then taken the handle with him, because the paint was scratched away around the hole.

Sherlock interpreted this as sign for usage and was eager to try the lift. He argued that up to now they weren't sure if it had been used, someone could have tried and not succeeded. John hindered him by arguing even the stepladder, on which Sherlock planned to stand on to protect the footprints, would disturb the evidence. To his great relief Sherlock finally listened. The idea of Sherlock operating an old lift standing on a stepladder seemed very risky to him, but Sherlock refused to understand that argument.

They waited outside for Lestrade and Sherlock smoked.

.

The police unit arrived a short time later and documented the evidence.

John noticed Lestrade did his best to make absolutely clear how glad he was Sherlock had found this and thanked him. Greg seemed to try to cheer Sherlock up in his own way and nodded at the DI, who understood the silent approval and nodded back.

While the team was busy Sherlock dragged John and Greg into Sandra's flat, where he stormed into her bedroom and opened her closet.

"Shoes." John grinned.

"Where else look for the causes of shoeprints?" Sherlock sat down on the ground, in front of the four rows of footwear and took one pair after the other out and inspected the sole.

"Right."

"This one!" Sherlock held up some relatively new trainers for John and Greg to see.

"Are you sure, mate? Should I fetch one of the pictures for comparison?" the DI asked.

"No need, it's this pair… But we need a large evidence bag for those." Sherlock's way to get up again was pedestrian an John noted the pale complexion and tired eyes once more, they had become worse.

They bagged the pair of shoes, it was likely the perpetrator had been the last person who had touched them. While Sherlock locked the door after them Lestrade's mobile rang.

"Lestrade… Hi Sally….Okay, have them brought to Mrs Herman's flat, we are still here. Ta," he hung up. "I want the keys back, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked not happy about that, but handed him the small bunch of keys.

When they returned to the forensic team in the cellar, they were almost finished and starting to pack up.

"If you are finished I want to try the lift."

"No way!" Lestrade interfered, "You can order it to go upstairs, but you'll not ride with it. Too dangerous."

"But our perpetrator used it, so it must be working fine."

"No! Where is the use in riding in it."

"It would be fun."

"No."

With a sour expression on his face Sherlock pushed past the last two persons who were now carrying the equipment outside. John feared in earnest Sherlock would just close the doors and start the lift, but he didn't.

He pushed the buttons from outside the cabin, prepared to jump out in case the thing would do something immediately, but when nothing happened he closed the door.

As soon as he had, the thing started a noisy and slow journey upstairs.

"Someone must have heard this." He passed them and they hurried to go after him once more.

.

Thirty minutes later they had knocked on every door and asked the resident if they had heard the noises before, Lestrade's team was ordered to make the lift go up and down constantly. They were lucky. Several people had heard the unknown noise Friday night and estimated it had been around eight o'clock, which meant Sherlock and John had inspected the flat just an hour before the killer brought Sandra back. They had then started the surveillance totally unaware they had come 'home'.

When they were returning to the cellar Lestrade received a message.

Mr Brinks hid the elevator again by closing the doors and removing the handles. They thanked him and said goodbye.

"Come on, let me give you a ride home, I have one box of files in my car and Sally just had someone deliver the other two."

"What boxes?"

"All suicides in the UK that weren't preceded by depressions or other mental illnesses from the past six months. John asked me to bring them."

Sherlock didn't react and John feared he might be embarrassed about the fact that he hadn't thought about it earlier. He lightened another cigarette and headed to Greg's car, the others followed.

…

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…

_Thank you for reading. :)_


	9. Chapter 9

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 9**

**Wednesday**

John and Mary headed out for lunch somewhere where they'd be able to talk in private while having something nice to eat.

They ended up at a pizza restaurant.

"He's testing me," Mary grinned and took the first slice of her pizza. "It's never been this clear with any new person I met. He's analysing me, cataloguing, sensing, storing,… and as funny as it sounds, I'm doing the same. But he passively observes, I kind of…actively push."

"What?… Honestly? Why didn't I realise?"

"Probably because you're so used to it. You either stopped asking yourself why he's doing certain things or you switched it off because you yourself are just to exhausted with all this stress to have space in your thoughts for this. But… he seems to want to be distracted, and he takes the chance with analysing me. I'll show you next time it happens, it's quite interesting... sometimes even funny. We do this fully aware and it's like a small puzzle… for both of us."

"Oh," was the only thing John said, chewing on another slice of his pizza. He was aware Sherlock couldn't stop observing, it felt a bit odd that it was his future wife under such close inspection. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. On one hand he felt he needed to protect her on the other she seemed to… enjoy it?

"John, what happened the other night…er, Monday?" Mary asked, they hadn't really talked about it, yet. She had come home late that evening and found John and Sherlock in the detective's room, on the floor.

The sight had shocked her a bit, but the fact that John was sleeping and Sherlock seemed deep in concentration had made her go upstairs as silent as possible.

The next day John had been out investigating with Sherlock and when they had returned home all three of them had a fast dinner and then started going through the files.

Mary was eager to participate and although Sherlock seemed a bit hesitant in the beginning he included her, as soon as she had asked obviously the right questions about with which strategy she was supposed to sort through it.

John had seen a conflict coming, being reminded of the reactions Sherlock had given Sarah all those years ago when she commented on some of the evidence during the banker case. But Sherlock had just told her how he wanted it done it they had worked in concentrated silence to narrow the amount of files down that might fit the profile.

Lestrade called a bit later and informed them two more boxes of files were ready and another few where on the way from other parts of the country.

John and Mary had gone to bed at around one in the morning while Sherlock had went on all night. So this was their first quiet moment together since Sunday night.

John needed a moment until he answered her question about Monday night.

"We did a mind palace session. It was difficult, different… He was resisting, not just a bit… not opening up, feeding me little pieces, but nothing I could really grab. It was just small pieces of a puzzle, he refused to show me any more than absolutely necessary. Just giving me tiny insights when he couldn't evade my probing. It was slow and tough…."

John took another bite.

"I learned almost nothing new, it was just a mess of information. But we once more stumbled into some… eerie, sinister… things. He's so pissed about not being able to control his problems and dominate his transport… I fear he's gonna hurt himself this way even more. He seems more angry than before… and pushing me away… overall a lot worse than last week."

"Is there anything I should have an eye on when I'm home alone with him?"

"If he wants to go to the mind palace… he can… as long as you or me are present… in the room or flat I mean, he shouldn't do it alone. I don't think he'll need help cleaning out the rubble, but I'd rather not him being alone with it.

"Okay." She giggled. "So that's what he's been doing in there, cleaning out the rubble?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't aware the thing is this… normal. What's it like?"

John told her a few general things and how the mind palace worked for Sherlock and how he normally used it to solve cases.

"So in general it's good for him, but it's behaving odd and he should use it carefully, is that what you are saying?" Mary finished the explanation.

"Yes, you decide… if it gets to odd or… stressing or whatever try to gently stop him, don't touch him. Give me a call if necessary. It's always the unexpected with him, but I… with some things he needs space… odd things… hard to describe."

"Okay, I'll call if I have doubts. Want to change topics for a moment?"

"Yes."

"How about we try to figure out a date for the wedding in the upcoming weeks, I mean if we really want to do it in spring we shouldn't wait that much longer to start planning."

"Oh, okay. Let's not confront him with that, yet, okay, he's not ready."

"Sure."

.

Sherlock had spent the night and half the day with the files, at some point he felt the need to move, to get out of the empty flat. The stale air and the lonely taste of it made him feel uneasy. He wanted to get a few more things he needed to experiments on the drug-cocktail. All tries to recreate it or to find something that would counter-act it had been futile. He was aware it was more of a curiosity thing than that it was actually needed. Who'd need something like that? The victims were dead and if they weren't no doctor in their right mind would let him give an untested drug to a patient who'd come out of it within a few hours. He wanted to know, or maybe just use his microscope again and do some experiments, finger exercise.

He left in the early afternoon to be sure he'd be back when John would come home.

When he arrived back at 221b at around 16:00 he had shopped at the chemist and also persuaded Molly to get him a few blood donation kits and a whole box of blood drawing tubes with the fitting cannulae.

Molly had been delighted about the visit, even entertained him with her current dead body she was working on. He let her, not eager to return to the empty flat to early.

On the stairs he sensed someone was in the kitchen.

He entered directly to see Mary wearing Mrs Hudson's apron.

"There will be dinner at 1800." Mary informed Sherlock.

"Where's John?"

"At work."

"Then why aren't you?"

"He asked me to go ahead. Offered to make dinner tomorrow and the day after if I went home to make some lasagne today. I accepted."

Sherlock realised in fact the flat was smelling like tomato sauce and béchamel.

He just stood there for a moment. Not sure what to do. Right. She was here, John would be here later.

What was he supposed to do?

"I… good."

'Good' was always kind, using that word would cause no harm.

But he needed… or wanted?… privacy right now. Maybe rest? Best option: escape to his room.

"Why don't you tell me what you found out?" Mary interrupted his thoughts and shoved him into a chair, coat on and all.

He stood up again.

"Excuse me for a minute, I need the bathroom."

A moment later he found himself standing in the flat's bathroom. Since he was already there taking a shower would be a good option. Washing away all the bad reminders of the day.

Moments later he had undressed and stepped into the warm haze.

But even after washing his hair and body twice he didn't feel better. It wasn't working.

He stepped out of the shower and into his room to get fresh clothes, then returned to the kitchen with the equipment he brought.

"Mary, you are trained in drawing blood… or starting a line for blood-donation," he stated.

"Sure, why?"

"I need you to take some of my blood." He was sure it would be easier to make her do it than convincing John to do it. He'd ask more questions, would be harder to obfuscate.

"What for?"

"Experiments."

"What kind of experiments?"

"Whole range of different scenarios, mostly chemical analyses."

She locked as if not sure if she believed him.

"I'm not sure we have a sample kit in the house."

"I have, but I'd prefer if you use a donating kit, more efficient. 500 ml would be enough to do all the tests and put some in store for later."

"Er… I can draw some samples, Sherlock, but not that much. You're still healing, taking that much would be not good. John would throw a fit if I did that."

"Fine." He placed the box on the kitchen table where Mary was busy unpacking the lasagne sheets. He took a sideways look into it, there were not only needles and sample containers, but also rubbing alcohol, swabs and a tourniquet.

"Oh, I see you are prepared," she commented.

"Obviously, we always had medical equipment at home, spared us several visits at the A&amp;E in the past."

"What do you want to test?" she tried again.

"I need to determine the effects of the drug used on the victims," he tried to be deliberately vague. He could see she wasn't really buying it, probably because of her profession.

"Can I watch the experiments?"

Definitely not buying it, and letting him know she wasn't… and that she'd try to maneuver him into a dead end if in the mood. Retreat? One more careful try to move out off this.

"I'll probably do it later this night or in the morning."

She didn't react at all to this answer, but pointed at the nearest chair.

"Sit there… and get that shirt of. Pushing the sleeve all the way is not an option."

He hadn't thought of that, the shirt he had chosen had indeed narrow cuffs. He returned to his bedroom and changed into a t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms.

She raised his eyebrows, maybe asking herself why he had completely changed instead of just slipping out of the sleeve… or was it because he once more wore the shirt inside out?

He sat down on the chair and started to disinfect the crook of his arm himself.

When Mary washed her hands he tightened the tourniquet. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him preparing the other sample containers and cannula, she was probably not used to see patients participate in this or do the work themselves. He was just trying to minimise the touches that the procedure usually included.

The vain had already started to bulge when she sat down with gloves already on.

Sherlock had placed ten large vials on the table.

"I'll do six, if you need more tomorrow, we can do that, but not all of them at once. That's too much."

"Fine."

She draw the blood and Sherlock watched closely.

"Thank you," he tried to smile nicely at her and took over pressing on the swab.

She washed again and resumed her cooking while Sherlock labelled the samples and gently moved them around to mix the blood with the anti-coagulant that was already in the containers.

He stored all expect one in the fridge, in the reserved compartment for experiments and took the one to his room.

He closed the door carefully and thought about how to do the experiment that was supposed to accustom himself to be able to smell blood again without causing any kind of crisis. Probably put it in a petri dish would allow the smell best to distribute.

But the presence of Mary in the kitchen and… he felt he hadn't the necessary concentration to do this yet, he'd wait until everybody was in bed and placed the vial on the windowsill.

There were new sounds in the kitchen.

John was home.

Good.

It was cold and he added his dressing gown to his outfit and then returned to the kitchen.

Mary was still rummaging in the kitchen while John was standing in the living room switching channels.

Sherlock decided to lie down on the sofa once more, blending out the smells of food as good as he could.

.

"Do not interfere, just watch," and with that Mary was through the door and entered the living room. She had just finished dinner preparation and put the lasagne into the oven.

Now she headed towards Sherlock who was lying on the sofa on his back in a thinking position, feet raised on the armrest.

John looked after her, around the window panes of the kitchen door, a bit not sure if whatever she planned wouldn't result in thrown cups and destroy the fragile trust Sherlock and Mary had built during the past days.

"There will be dinner in thirty," she informed Sherlock before sitting on the coffee table, exactly where John had sat so often before. Then, with one swift movement, she removed his left sock.

John held his breath when Sherlock froze.

"Your foot is hurting?"

It actually took almost ten long seconds until Sherlock answered. "No."

"You've been walking around with this one a bit, didn't you?"

He sat up into a position of attention, but before Sherlock had time to think how to make her stop inspecting his foot politely she was probing the toes in detail.

"That looks broken. Why didn't John bandage it?"

"He…" Sherlock started, but obviously didn't know how to finish the sentence.

She had grabbed his ankle and leaned even closer… to close, Sherlock could feel her breath and instinctively tried to remove his limb from her grip.

"Yes?"

"I didn't tell him… before…"

"What? Why the hell not?" her tone had been casual but now it had changed to stern.

"I…" the detective started and gently tried to pull away. But her grip tightened and the next moment she probed the toes not too careful again, searching for the break.

The detective was still trying to drag away when she ordered, "Don't move!" without looking up at him.

"I…"

"Just give me a minute," she had tape in her hand suddenly and before Sherlock really saw what was happening he heard it was ripped into stripes and then felt it was wrapped around his toes.

"I can't…" he was clearly taken by surprise about the fact that she approached him in a physical way like this.

"Nonsense. You can wear this a few days. You'll see it won't be as uncomfortable as you think it is, as soon as you walked on it a few steps. Then, you'll feel it'll actually take pressure off the broken toes and feels good. So, shut up."

Her moves were efficient and fast.

"What?"

"It's a bit mean to not let John help, you know." Mary informed, but her tone carried no judgement or obvious criticism.

"What?" Sherlock was visibly irritated, and a bit unnerved. "What's that supposed to mean?… What kind of perspective is that?"

"He is a doctor, he needs to help." Mary explained. "He can't watch somebody hurt, it's bad for him. He actually made an oath to help people, no matter what. If you don't allow him to do it, that's kind of rude, especially since you're someone who means a lot to him. Why didn't you let him?"

"I… I didn't want to bother him. It's not his fault, it's mine. I was…" Sherlock realised he didn't want to talk about this. John deserved to know things, she didn't. But she was part of John. Would they talk about it? Was John listening? The detective looked up towards the kitchen doors but John was nowhere to be seen. He could hear pots and pans were moved in the kitchen and hoped John wasn't listening.

Mary on the other hand knew he was, she had planned all her moves, careful to not overstep any boundaries to fast or to rude. She knew perfectly well she was pushing them gently, it was a social experiment, and she was sure John understood it.

She was working on getting his trust and finding her place in… this. Using his confusion seemed a good strategy, though when she was honest, he had been afraid of his refusal, or being yelled at.

When she was finished Sherlock hadn't really moved. She didn't look at him, just casually packed the tape and headed back to the kitchen.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked to relax the situation, halfway across the room.

"Tea."

"With lasagne?"

"You ate pizza for lunch and lasagne for dinner and think it's odd to drink tea with an Italian meal?"

She hesitated briefly, how did he know? "No, it's fine… As you like."

When she returned to the kitchen John had a whimsically grin on his face, which signalled he was surprised but admired her creativity. Though he had probably held his breath while she was doing it… and that he probably knew how Sherlock had deduced what they had for lunch.

….

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….

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. :)_


	10. Chapter 10

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_Thanks to all the persons out there who are reading, following, favouriting ___and reviewing _my stuff. :)_

…

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**Chapter 10**

**Thursday**

Sherlock had spent the last night entirely with checking the suicide files, John and Mary had joined him now and then for a bit, but then they went to bed early.

When John came down to have a shower in the morning Sherlock was still busy with the files, it was clear he hadn't even thought about sleeping.

About twenty minutes later John came out of the bathroom and a cup of steaming tea was on the kitchen table, he was not sure if Sherlock had made one and forgotten it. When he looked into the living room to remind his former flatmate that it was getting cold he found Sherlock sipping his own cup and reading concentrated through another file.

He raised his eyebrows. Should he ask if this was fit to drink or an experiment?

"Sherlock, what's it with the tea on the kitchen table?" Better safe than sorry. The table looked as if Sherlock had done some experimenting.

"It's for you." Sherlock answered in an isn't-it-obvious-voice.

"So, just tealeaves and water, no chemicals or whatever?" he teased when he sat down opposite of Sherlock on the dining table.

Sherlock looked up with an odd mixture of anger and regret in his eyes.

"Sorry. Just joking. Thank you," he tried to backpedal, but it was clear Sherlock was not amused. "Found something?"

"Several files seem to be interesting." Sherlock's tone was bored and signalled he was not eager to talk.

Mary came down a few minutes later and when the couple left for work Sherlock hadn't said another word and was still reading files. He was almost through.

.

It took Sherlock about one more hour to finish the last files, he was not glad about the results. About a dozen cases needed to be investigated in more detail, he decided to go to Scotland Yard later since now he felt the need to take care of personal hygiene. Lately he found it disturbing to smell even the slightest bit unwashed or sweaty, he felt like reeking all the time, had showered even twice some days. His skin didn't like it.

Maybe he should start the desensitisation project, the blood vials were prepared, he just needed to empty one of them into a petri dish and place it on the windowsill of his room. He was slightly unnerved about the fact that he hadn't managed to do it yet, maybe it was because he hadn't been in his room all night.

He fetched fresh clothed and performed the planned task. The liquid was disturbingly red, he tried to fade down his attention to any smells. Since his room was oddly bright with muted light, caused by the reflected whiteness from the snow outside, the contrast between the grey atmosphere of the day and the glowing red was almost disturbing.

He fled to the bathroom and had a long, hot shower, which left him feeling run down. When he returned to the living room he was already cold again.

Maybe lying down a bit and check the chosen files again mentally would be a good idea, he could do the planned experiments later. He fetched a blanket, but it did not feel nice to use it, he felt actually unnerved about his body being so squeamish about a bit of cold weather.

Minutes later he slipped into sleep, didn't even realise when it happened.

.

His phone woke him around 14:15 and he felt he had been in deep sleep because of the effort it was to stand steady and find the noisy thing.

His eyes felt swollen and when he picked up he had to clear his throat twice until the "Hello" was actually audible.

"Hey, from which distant corner of the galaxy did I bring you back?" Lestrade asked, his tone vivid and kind, too vivid for Sherlock's liking. Lately 'good' moods were getting on his nerves even more than usual.

"What is it?"

"We may have found something… or more precisely it found us. Can you come in? There's somebody here who claims to be a witness… or victim. I'd like to have you here when we do the interview, we'll wait for you if you hurry."

Oh, that was indeed interesting!

"How did she know about the characteristics of the case?" was the first thing that sprang to Sherlock's mind.

"Er, there was another news report that leaked some more information this morning, not too much, though… and it's a 'he', actually."

"Okay. On my way."

John was not home… inconvenient. He decided to text him from the cab and tell him about the news and to come to Scotland Yard.

.

When Sherlock and Lestrade entered the DI's office forty-five minutes later, a young man was sitting inside waiting for them. Probably in his mid twenties and a student from the university, Sherlock deduced. The man was fumbling with his tablet computer, not playing, checking mails or something.

"Mr. White, this is Sherlock Holmes, he's helping us with the investigation. Has Sgt. Donovan brought in the sketches?"

"Not yet. Lucas, please," the dark blonde-haired man stood up to greet Sherlock, but when he extended his hand Sherlock did a step back. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Good afternoon, nice of you to come here," Sherlock said, overly friendly, trying to counteract the rude movement. "What made you come here in the first place?"

"They… they said at the TV there's someone out there killing and before that paralysing his victims and… spending time with them and…. I…"

"Why don't you sit down, lad," Lestrade tried to relax the situation.

Nervous, sweating, doubting it had been a good decision to come here, Sherlock observed while the man sat down. He rounded the desk and sat down opposite of him, on Lestrade's chair. He needed to sit in a way where he could clearly see the man's tiniest expression.

Lestrade did not comment and went over to the sideboard and to fetch three mugs.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"No. I… I had an… encounter with a man about a year ago… They said not much on TV, but what they said was…. Similar to what I remember, which is very little, but… it was odd…"

Mr White explained to them that he had met a guy in a bar he visited with friends, he asked about his tablet and started a conversation, claiming he considered buying that model himself. Half an hour later he went away, leaving a nickname and a name of a chat program. Two days later, Lucas had just left his flat to see a friend, when someone had appeared behind him. The next thing he knew was he was on a sofa, paralysed, another person was there, but as soon as he had regained consciousness he was forced to swallow a bitter liquid by a man, he thought it was the guy from the pub.

He had woken up later again and was once more immediately drugged, he had felt bad at that point. When he woke the third time someone had just dumped him in a park, it was night but he saw the man look down at him and when the perpetrator realised he was awake he had punched him in the face, knocking him out.

While Lucas was telling his story Donovan came in and brought the drawings in a closed manila folder and sat down with them.

Now Lestrade opened the folder and took out the drawing of the main suspect.

"Can you tell us if the man that held and dumped you had similarities with this man?"

He handed the sketch to Lucas.

"Ehm, that were two different guys, actually." Lucas stated.

"Oh!" Sherlock made all the others flinch with his exclamation of excitement. "Show him the other sketch, from the man that came to the hospital to kill Mrs… whatever…"

"What?" Lucas flinched. "He tried to kill her again?"

"Yes, we have her guarded and he did _not_ succeed." Lestrade gave Sherlock a reproachful look, then held up the sketch of the second man.

"Is that the one?" Sherlock probed further.

"That's not him… though I was dizzy and it was dark… but …no, he was older… a lot older… more like my father, older than you," he said to Lestrade.

"What did you see?" Sherlock asked.

"Tall, had a hat, grey hair, slender… Military boots… maybe military trousers, too."

"What else do you remember?"

"Could you help our sketch artist create a picture of him?" Lestrade asked.

"No… it was too dark and the cap covered most of his face. I… only remember this little bit."

It turned out Lucas had been away from home for three days and didn't know where he had been or why.

He had only been conscious for seconds before he was drugged again. He also had felt very sick during and after the incident. In fact he had been so very ashamed and afraid of it all he hadn't told anyone and also hadn't reported to the police.

"So, you never saw them together? The second man was not in the flat with you and the first one not to be seen when you were dumped?" Sherlock tried to jog his memories.

"No, but I was only very briefly awake… so that means nothing."

"Is there anything left, that we might use to investigate?" Lestrade asked.

"Clothes, the shoes, that you were wearing… the nickname, anything?" Sherlock added.

"No. I threw them away, had worn them for three days and I never wanted to see them again."

"Interesting," Sherlock added, the other victims were dressed by the suspects. "Can you remember the surroundings? Was it clean? What was the surface like you were lying on?"

"Sorry, I was too busy panicking and trying to fight the man than anything else," the young man's voice was slightly shaking now. "But I can give you the nick and the data." He was busy with his smart phone and then showed Lestrade something on the screen.

"Oh, good, that might be helpful!" Lestrade smiled friendly at him. "Can we have that for a few minutes? Donovan, bring that to the computer scientists." He handed her the phone and she vanished.

The rest of the interview brought nothing interesting up and Lestrade offered the Mr White that if he felt threatened or remembered anything else he was welcome to come back.

.

Sherlock came back home to a brightly lit flat. John and Mary were already home.

As promised John was preparing dinner.

"Oh, hi," John greeted when he entered. "What's did you find out?"

John had answered Sherlock's the text message that asked him to join the detective immediately and told him it was impossible to come, the flu season made the surgery burst with sick patients and there was absolutely no way to get out early.

Sherlock now stood in the kitchen, still wrapped in his coat and gave John a short summary of the interview. John seemed very interested and asked several questions about details.

"Hey, why don't you get rid of the coat and tell me more? Get into something comfortable, dinner will be ready in half an hour." John was busy slicing some fresh mushrooms.

Sherlock indeed felt cold and actually liked that he was still wearing the coat, but the flat was warm and cosy.

He headed to his room to change and get his phone's charger, it was almost out of battery power.

The moment he stepped through the door the odour hit him like a sledgehammer. He stood rooted to the spot, a flood of memories hitting his brain and dragging him away from reality with unyielding force.

He felt like fighting against a storm that assaulted his mind, he fought the image of the dungeon that appeared around him, trying to consciously remember he was at home. It took what felt like an eternity to see his room around him again.

But with the return of the real surroundings something else attacked him. He realised he'd throw up momentarily.

He dashed into the bathroom through the connecting door and emptied his stomach into the toilet. Dizziness… he felt abnormally intensely sick and sank to his knees in front of the porcelain bowl. This was not good, he was just glad that no-one seemed to have heard him.

"Sherlock?"

Cheered too soon.

He couldn't answer. His voice would reflect how he felt right now and the last thing he needed was a scene or someone hovering.

He placed his left hand at the wall to stabilise himself and then moved over to the door, locking it with one swift movement.

"This is actually increasing my worry, what's wrong?" the doctor said behind the closed door.

Sherlock gulped repeatedly and cleared his throat.

"Nothing," he pressed out, his voice was shaky but he did his best to let it sound loud, clear and normal. Not in the slightest successful, obviously.

"I expect you to be out of there in two minutes," John announced.

Great!

Sherlock pulled himself up with the help of the tub, but the movement brought more nausea and he had to breathe deeply and gulp several times to prevent himself from vomiting again.

Three minutes later he finally managed to use the mouthwash, afterwards he stumbled back into his room, where he locked not only the connecting door, but also the door to the hall.

Moments later someone knocked at said door.

"Sherlock?"

"What is it?" He didn't care if he was rude or not, the last thing he needed right now was someone in here. The smell made him nauseous again and he forced himself to ignore it and tried to calm down his suddenly hammering heart. His stood in the middle of the room, opening and closing his fists in mental and physical agony.

"Come on, mate, open the door, let me in."

"No!"

"I need to see if you're okay, please."

"Go away!" Sherlock realised he was yelling now.

"Please…" John's voice was low and worried.

The intensity of the smell became more distressing by the minute and Sherlock felt like something deep inside was trying to forcefully worm it's way out of him, he tried breathing through his open mouth, not knowing what was really happening. Frustration and anger were building up, too.

"Sherlock, I…"

Something snatched inside him, he took the petri dish and threw it at the door.

"I said go away!" he screamed with a force that caught even himself off guard. The outburst left him panting and while he stared at the red that slowly trickled down the door he staggered backwards onto his bed.

He let himself fall into it and curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than the world to go away, leave him alone.

…

* * *

….

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading._

_Please let me know what you think. _


	11. Chapter 11

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

...

* * *

...

**Chapter 11**

**Friday**

When John came down the stairs the next morning he went straight to Sherlock's door in order to check if it was still locked.

The living room table had been used during the night for computer research and therefore he was sure Sherlock had been up. There was also a play station connected to their TV and the screen showed some game scores. John switched off the display but left the paddles and game console untouched.

He found the door to Sherlock's room unlocked and peered in.

The other man was on his bed, his pallor was alarming, but he was relaxed in deep sleep and breathing regularly. John watched him for almost a minute, watching the pulse on his neck and looking for any kind of distress, but it seemed all fine. He registered a faint smell in the air but assumed Sherlock had been experimenting.

The doctor had been uneasy and restless all night after the events of the last evening but this eased his mind a bit.

He was glad it was Mary's day off today and she had promised to stay in the flat and discreetly monitor him. John's worry had been climbing constantly during the past days. Mary woke up when he kissed her goodbye and he headed to work.

.

Half an hour later Mary heard Sherlock loudly expressing his disapproval about Mrs Hudson's presence. She hurried down the stairs, just to see the landlady vanish into her own flat.

"Morning," she greeted in the most neutral voice she could master. She otherwise ignored him and headed into the kitchen where she put on the kettle.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.

Mary attended to a few things she had to organise, paperwork and answering mails. This way they spent half the morning, not speaking, just being in the same room. Mary didn't feel ignored or had the need to do small talk, it was just sharing the living room. The silence was not laden with anything, it was actually quite relaxed. She wondered if Sherlock felt the same way. He was not abnormally tense or angry any longer, but he was also not sleeping. Maybe he had gone to his mind palace or was analysing things he had learned during the night.

.

In the early afternoon Mary stepped closer to the sofa, speaking in a low voice.

"Can I talk to you?"

Sherlock stiffened but didn't open his eyes, "If you must."

"Your friends are willing to help."

"I don't need help!"

"Shut up! Open your eyes and make a deduction, everyone here is willing to help, Let them. You need it!"

"I can't…" Sherlock hissed and opened his eyes.

"If you really did all that shit the past two years to make your friends save you know how it feels to need to protect and help someone, so for god's sake accept that they want to protect you, too! Let them help! Don't refuse their help. Bite the bullet and behave like you care."

Sherlock blinked, looking as if this perspective was totally new and baffling him.

"What for waste their energy? They can do nothing to delete what happened. It is me who needs to endure this and where is the use of confronting them with my weaknesses?"

"You are not weak! And you are not confronting us with anything we don't want to handle, letting friends see it won't make them think any less of you."

"Why not?"

"Because… they are friends."

"I hate pity."

"No one is pitting you!… What you see in their eyes is not pity, it's hurt. They see you hurt and it hurts them to fell you hurt, it's called empathy. They sense your pain and want to lessen your suffering. That's got nothing to do with pity. That's called love, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat up, "I can't do this."

"Why not?"

"It makes me feel sick."

"More description needed."

"It feels not good, I constantly fight the impulse to hide."

"You are afraid to accept? Why?"

"Because of the unforeseeable price."

"Explain."

"When people are nice they only do it because they want something. Later they come back and demand favours I don't want to give or think they are inappropriate."

"Er, real friends don't do that, and I can't believe John ever did something like that. Not in earnest, maybe in a teasing way, but not like this. Friends will give care and love without asking for stuff, because they know that when they need help they can rely on you."

"Where is the difference between these two?" Sherlock asked in a tired voice. Why was she taking her time to explain this?

"What you describe is like… pressure and what I describe is like giving something out of love… Sherlock. I think your friends treated you that way before the fall, though I might have the feeling you didn't really realise because you expect that everybody has to listen to you and do as you wish, but during your time alone you learned that when you needed something you had to pay for it, which was kind of new to you, wasn't it?"

"That's ridiculous. I have been on my own almost my entire adult life. No one ever did things for me out of kindness. People don't like me, they don't do things for me." Was she right? He had been told before he was rudely dominating people. It wasn't his intention, this sounded like he was a real bad person. Maybe he was and all the people who had told him were right.

"No wait," she interrupted, sensing he was on the wrong trail and it was disturbing him. It might have sounded more nasty than it should. "It just sounds odd when I say it like this, to hard. Let me make an example. When you lived with John he made tea quite frequently. You expected him to make tea, you only made tea when he wasn't available or he refused. He made it because he wanted to be kind to you or because he knew you needed liquids and would forget to drink. So he did it to be nice and because he cared for you. You only seldom made tea out of your own accord. Did you ever made some because of the same reasons he made some for you?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say. Had he ever been a friend how friends should be?

"He never expected you to do it for him and he never asked you to do it for him in return, he just did. Maybe sometimes he was cursing inwardly that you were so selfish to expect him to do it and maybe because he spoiled you to rely on him…"

Sherlock watched her stoically.

"Now, when you were away you learned there were only two ways to get a tea: go and buy one it in a café or something, or make someone make one for you by being nice or convincing them to do so…. So which did you usually do?" Mary raised her eyebrows in question.

Sherlock asked himself how to answer that.

"So, when now John offers you a tea, would you refuse it because you feared he wanted money or…"

Sherlock understood the last one was a rhetorical question, was this one, too? No, it wasn't, she wanted him to understand, this was a rather childish example.

"Your perspective changed, I didn't know you before, but I think you saw and learned a lot the past two years when you were on the run and hunted, and were also hunting and fighting to survive… and I think you need some more time to come back to London and the civilised world. You changed more than you think and you hate that you can't just switch yourself and also everybody else back to from two years ago. But I am sure there are several good things you learned, like valuing friends. Don't get this wrong, I know you valued them before, but maybe you were taking their actions too much for granted."

The way she said it made it didn't sound _really_ bad, at least not as bad as he felt.

"I know you are hurting with your experiences. But… don't hurt yourself and others by not moving on… things have changed, things change, things will always change. Now that you have suffered from really bad things you might understand the suffering of others and not dismiss it as totally irrelevant what they have been though, respect it, you know?… Or are you disgusted because you descended down to their level? Which in my opinion would be the absolute wrong way to see this… but it's been heard of that mean people do it."

"I…" Sherlock started, knowing there was nothing he could say to that but felt the need to …? Was she trying to provoke him? Her tone was friendly and Sherlock was confused. She was different than other people, harder to read.

"Accept their help, some people actually have seen the dark and are able to help." Mary interrupted his rambling thoughts.

"What if it makes it worse for John to help me?"

"It'll make him worse if you don't. A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved."

"That's one of the most imbecile sayings I ever heard. Sorrow shared is sorrow doubled."

"Oh, god… don't take it literally, you know what it means, don't you?"

"Of course, I have a database to translate empty talk."

"Oh, good… Er… do you think you'd actually recognise help when it is offered?"

He looked like a schoolboy, caught not knowing an answer.

"Oh, Sherlock… I… Okay…"

His knowledge of human behaviour was so extended she often forgot it lacked actual real life things sometimes, and intuition.

"When others offer things that might make your day a bit easier, then accept because that it one form of help. Trust John, he knows what it feels like to deal with traumatic memories. He can help by explaining coping techniques to you, listen to him. Don't send him away when he tries to talk about things, it's quite hard on him, too, talking about feelings and his own bad experiences," Mary explained. "Healing with this means baby-steps towards better times. Learning strategies to cope and endure the bad times, the bumps in the road. Just accept anything that is offered in order to keep you going. That might be a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson or a friendly presence when you have bad memories hunting you. I know it doesn't feel like it'll ever get better, but it _will_. John once told me solving cases with you and going out on adventures with you helped him a lot to cope with it. Of course it didn't make the bad memories go away or soften how horrible they were, but he experienced good things that made the hard times a tiny bit easier. And over time the depressions and nightmares abated. You helped him a lot with this, intentional or not, but you did. Let him help, too."

"I also _helped_ making them come back. I have no right to ask anything from him."

"This is not about you asking him, this is accepting what is offered. Let him help, this will heal him and you. Just do it. If you'd ask him for help he'd probably be really happy about it, because it would show that you still trust him like before the fall, and that would actually help _him_ heal."

Sherlock looked unsure and hesitant.

"He has nightmares, yes. You see, you both need to help each other, this is the only way to get things back to normal."

"The help I myself can offer for example is to provide company, you know, if you feel bad you can just seek my presence. We don't need to talk or do anything, sometimes the single fact to be not alone in the room already is good to drive the bad memories away. Actually getting sensory stimuli to drive away bad reminders is something else everybody of your friends is happy to provide. You already accept the distractions some of your friends offer, go on, it's good."

"How do I really know they want to do this? I can't be certain. What makes you think he wants me back?"

"Oh, Sherlock…" she felt near to tears suddenly, he sounded so abandoned, and as if he was not longer certain of everything he had thought he knew before. This was not untypical thinking in his situation, the bad thoughts nagging at his soul, she knew that. Actually it might be good to express them for once. "What makes you think he doesn't? Why do you think we are here?"

"He's angry."

"Why do you think that?" She decided to monitor John a bit closer, she thought he was getting over it rather fast, but now she asked herself if it was true. "Maybe he is. But that has got nothing to do with wanting you in his life or not."

She saw in his face he didn't understand.

"I am angry at him sometimes, too, but that doesn't mean that I don't love him. Maybe it's even the other way round, I care about him and therefore I fight… that's a bit odd to explain, but you don't fight with people you don't care about, because they are not worth is…?" She knew it was a lousy explanation, but she had no better idea how to put it spontaneously.

"He is angry with me sometimes, too, that happens in human relationships, it's quite normal, it does not mean he rejects you, you know."

Sherlock stared at her.

"Come on, it can't be new to you that people are angry and quarrel sometimes."

"It isn't."

"So why do you think that makes him not want you back in his life? Would you leave him because he did something he did?"

"Of course not." Sherlock said in a don't-be-absurd-tone. "But I overstepped the line… did things that can't be forgiven."

"You think you deserve to be forgiven?"

"I did it so save him."

"I assume that means 'yes'. Why don't you forgive yourself then?"

"What?"

"You heard me. He has forgiven you, he'll be angry for a while, because this was really bad, but he'll get over it some day. Just keep going."

"No, he won't. He just endures me. Like everybody else did all my life, now he does it, too. Because he is a good person and wouldn't kick such a pathetic broken freak like me because of our former friendship."

"Sherlock! This is definitely not what he thinks! He knows you are regretting how it all turned out and that you are sorry. And deep down there you know that!"

"I don't know any longer what I thought I knew!"

"Just go on and you'll both be fine. And trust me when I say he has honestly really forgiven you and wants you back. If he wouldn't he'd left right after you surprised us at the restaurant, and he wouldn't have tried to come to the flat the next day… and he surely wouldn't have spent time here with you, caring for you. He loves you like a brother. Don't shove him away, it would be the same mistake all over again. Keeping him out of the loop, I mean not inform him about what you think and plan to be precise, would mean jumping on the bandwagon. Don't. Tell him, get his trust back faster by telling him."

Sherlock didn't answer at first, then whispered, "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Just go on, show that you are truly sorry, and talk to him, at least answer when he asks you honestly, keep him in the loop. You think you can do that?"

Sherlock stood there for several seconds, then nodded. Mary knew John had briefly been over this with the detective before, but she wanted to point it out, too. He needed to get this into his head.

"Did you find out anything last night?" she gestured to the notes that littered the table next to the laptops.

"Can you do me a favour?" he asked.

"Depends."

"Bandwagon… it's meant like hitting the part that's already bruised if I got that right… Can we not use proverbs, please?"

"I'll try. What did you find?"

"Some hints about the nickname the perpetrator used to store his scores at Mrs Herman's play station… he was careful to chose one he thought he hadn't used before, but I found an old entry in a message board, which is several years old actually. The forum is for military personal, young recruits can ask questions there… the topic of the post is as far as I can see it not related. I texted Lestrade to get the server protocols."

"You think the police can do that?"

"Not sure. It's a server run by the military and maybe the data has been deleted years ago."

Mary made him explain her more about the research he had done, in the beginning she had just tried to make him concentrate on something else than his dark thoughts, but now she found it was getting more and more interesting this case.

…

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. Please review if you like my stuff._


	12. Chapter 12

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 12**

**Friday evening**

The moment John closed the front door behind him he heard loud discussing.

"I don't want to!" Sherlock yelled and John hurried up the stairs.

To his relieve Sherlock was neither rude to Mary nor Mrs Hudson, it was Mycroft who was standing in the middle of the living room, still in his coat and umbrella in his hand.

"You'll come or I _will_ tell them about the incident at Birmingham, when you were…" he didn't finished the sentence because Sherlock, fully aware John was in the room with them interrupted him, obviously it was nothing John was allowed to know, too.

"Fine!" the consulting detective spit and headed off to his room.

"I'll pick you up at half past seven," Mycroft shouted after him and a moment later Sherlock banged his room's door shut with unexpected force.

"Good evening, John. Must be more hellish than usual in his current state to spent time here. I'm quite grateful you are doing the babysitter. Tonight you are free though, we'll go to a concert. Thank you."

"Stop treating me like an employee, Mycroft," John murmured, a bit tense with the situation that had greeted him. And where the hell was Mary?

"Oh, I beg your pardon, it wasn't my intention," the older Holmes sounded over-friendly which did not soothe John's nerves, quite the opposite.

"I merely wanted to express gratitude for trying to help him and being here. I am worried."

"I know." John simply answered.

"Okay. Call in case you need anything. See you later." Mycroft was out the door a moment later, not waiting for a reply.

John went up the stairs and found the door to his room ajar, Mary on the bed with her tablet. He knew she had been listening closely.

"What happened?"

"Actually Sherlock and I spent the day in quite an… educational mood… until his brother showed up."

"Uh, great first impression?" John grinned at his future wife.

"Uh-huh," she rolled her eyes.

John leaned down to kiss her briefly before he started to change.

"He's exactly how you described him… Sherlock and I were making progress, after not talking the first half of the day we spoke about trust and accepting help in detail. He opened up a bit, even asked questions and then we talked about the theories he has about the case."

"Let me guess, than Mycroft showed up and all the relaxed atmosphere was gone and the yelling started."

"Exactly. They send me away when I tried to do some de-escalation."

"Oh, never step between them when they have a shouting match. Took me years to gain the right to do that, and only occasionally," he grinned.

"Mycroft and his parents want him to come to a concert. There is a special violin event at a fancy place and… sounded _very_ high-class."

"Probably is."

"Sherlock insinuated Mycroft had plotted it to make him pay for the musical he had to go to with his parents when they were visiting last time. But Mycroft stated that it was nonsense since they were all four going."

"Oh!" John just made. "He told me we have the evening 'off' from babysitting."

"I heard."

"Right."

"So, what do we do since we have the run of the house?"

"I have several ideas, actually," he kissed her again, a bit longer this time.

"Me, too," she answered.

.

They decided to go out and ten minutes later headed downstairs to have dinner before they'd go.

They had hoped to make Sherlock eat with them, but he refused, stated he'd eat with his family later. John thought that he was fabricating it and opened the door to his room through which Sherlock had answered.

The bedroom was brightly lit and Sherlock stood in the middle. It was quite chaotic, usually Sherlock's room was not such a mess, in contrast to the rest of the flat. Now, clothes were everywhere, a perfectly ironed tuxedo was lying on the bed, next to a crumpled all-day-suit. Sherlock had doffed it and thrown it there, but not recently, he had obviously worn his dressing gown all day.

Once more John frowned about the unaired smell of the room, it was even smelling a bit like something was decaying, but there was nothing obviously visible that might cause the smell.

"What's the smell?"

"What smell?" Sherlock asked innocently but John did see something in his eyes, something hesitating.

"It's an odour that reminds me of something decomposing. Have you been experimenting?"

"Yes… Yes, it's an experiment."

John looked around but saw nothing and frowned. Something was not right here.

While inspecting the room the doctor's eyes once more rested on the bed and he recognised the tuxedo was the same one Sherlock had chosen to wear for 'surprising' him. So, it wasn't just a costume, it was Sherlock's own.

Why did Sherlock own a tuxedo? John tried to remember if he had seen it before or if it was new.

Had Sherlock worn it because it was supposed to be a message or just because he had known he'd be able to blend in with the waiters that way?

John picked up the expensive looking thing from the bed.

"What is it?" Sherlock sounded harsh and confused, he laboriously disrobed himself from the dressing gown. He was now only in a t-shirt, which he wore inside out and his pyjama bottoms.

It was quite cool in the room but the first thing that sprang into John's eyes was that the shirt was wet with sweat on several places.

The doctor frowned and tried to sound casual while he eyed Sherlock carefully.

"It's yours?" he asked.

"Of course. Whom else should it belong?"

"Would you have worn it, too if I had met Mary at a tuck shop that night?" John tried to disguise the real meaning of his question.

"I _did_ wear it in the tuck shop that night, two tuck stops to be precise." Sherlock palliated the description of the event.

John turned the expensive clothes hanger and inspected the back of the jacket, he knew it must have been soiled when Sherlock had been thrown to the ground by him, and it was indeed messy in the back. There was also some small reminders of the nosebleed Sherlock had suffered by John's hands.

"That was not what I meant."

"I only wear a tuxedo at special occasions, I thought it was one."

"So the answer is yes, you would have?"

Sherlock searched for something in his wardrobe. Some seconds later he turned to the hamper and dragged out the rumpled shirt that was a part of the expensive outfit, when he saw it was stained in the back with blood from the torn stitches he hastily stuffed it back in the hamper and tried to conceal it, hoping John had not seen it. But it was too late, his former flatmate looked sadly down to the tuxedo in his hands.

"Well, I can still wear a sheet."

John looked up surprised, "Where are you going?"

"To hear a very extraordinary violinist , special occasion."

"That sounds nice, doesn't it."

"Although I greatly admire his abilities, I don't like to listen to him in a room full of breathing, coughing and smelling stupid people. Their pure presence disturbs my hearing, as do the perfumes, cosmetics and aftershaves. Maybe I should have pointed out that I plan to actually wear a sheet, it might have made my brother abstain from blackmailing me into coming with them," Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh." John just made. Before the situation could become any more awkward Mary came down the hall.

"Boys, this was just delivered." She held up a suit bag.

"I hate when he does that," Sherlock muttered, took the large bag from her and threw it onto the bed. He took his own suit from John with care and returned it to his wardrobe.

John zipped open the newly arrived bag and whistled.

"Wow." Mary said. "Maybe you guys should wear tuxedos at our wedding," she suggested. "Come on, get into it, I want to see."

"Shower first." Sherlock envisaged a fashion display and tried to evade it.

Since Sherlock refused to eat with them and vanished into the bathroom the couple changed plans and decided to have a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant as a start of the evening.

Sherlock left the flat in a tuxedo concealed by his coat at half past seven without being stopped by Mary's protest.

.

John and Mary went to their favourite restaurant for dinner. They came home after a really nice evening about a quarter past midnight and there was already light in the flat.

When they entered the living room John was surprised to see Sherlock's father sitting in Sherlock's armchair with a cup of tea in his hand, his posture was the exact same one Sherlock had. John grinned.

"Oh, hi." He greeted.

"Good evening." The man stood up and shook his and Mary's hands. "My wife is with Sherlock, bedroom."

While Mary excused herself to get into some more comfortable clothes John glanced towards Sherlock's room, not seeing anybody and not sure what that meant. He also didn't really know how to start small talk with Sherlock's family. They had never spoken before and their first meeting two weeks ago was kind of awkward, Sherlock throwing them out and being rude and all. The man already had tea, so John asked the first thing that came to his mind.

"Everything okay? Something happened?"

"No, he's probably sleeping."

"What?"

"He fell asleep on the sofa while we were talking about his work."

"Oh…" John knew he looked a bit dumbfounded. Only Sherlock could be so rude to actually do that, but on the other hand for Sherlock this was a great gesture of trust to sleep in someone else's presence. The doctor briefly wondered if Sherlock's parents were aware of that. Probably, mothers knew such things.

He felt a bit uneasy, not knowing what to do or say. Why the hell had Sherlock never introduced them before?

"We had quite a nice evening. Sherlock told us you proposed to Mary. I assume that was the young lady that came in with you?"

"Yes. We had dinner, too."

"Oh, good evening Dr Watson," said a calm female voice from behind John.

John turned around and saw Sherlock's mother behind him. He took her outstretched hand.

"Since Sherlock forgot to introduce you a few weeks ago… I assume he was very nervous to see you again and couldn't muster the… whatever… Glad to finally meet you."

John raised his eyebrows. Was that why Sherlock had been so rude, because he was nervous? John had assumed he didn't want them to meet, probably because he had hoped that John wouldn't have found out that they knew he had been alive, too… or maybe they didn't knew that John didn't knew and Sherlock feared they would not like to learn it? Were they talking about such things at all? Somehow John couldn't imagine a family meeting, not even with a lot of fantasy, and especially not with Mycroft in the picture. This situation was already more than strange.

"Glad to meet you, too."

"He fell asleep on the sofa. We decided to leave, but then he became breathless in his sleep and when I touched him he stood up and shuffled off to his room. I have to admit I'm a bit worried… He just lay down in his bed and slept on. I checked on him several times and he seems to be fine, but… You'll be here, tonight, right?" she asked John.

"Yes, I will. The whole week in fact."

"Oh, good… good. He was a bit odd today."

John wondered what Sherlock's mother considered odd and what normal with Sherlock. Did they know why Sherlock was in such a bad state? How he knew Sherlock and Mycroft they would not talk about such things freely.

"Mycroft told us he was a bit overworked."

That answered the question. They hadn't, so John kept his mouth shut.

"He is. I'm glad he managed to get asleep, actually."

"He did." Mrs Holmes grinned and rolled her eyes, she didn't even sound offended that he had done it mid-conversation.

"The boys they talked quite a lot about his current case."

"Did they?" John had thought about suggesting that Sherlock asked Mycroft about finding out several things the police had no access to without months of paper work, but had assumed Sherlock would throw a fit as a response. Had he asked Mycroft himself now? Wow, that would be an eye-opener.

"We don't want to disturb any longer." Mr Holmes had finished his tea and slipped into his suit coat and she now also took her coat.

The brief encounter ended with them shaking hands again and moments later they were gone.

John sneaked into Sherlock's room and checked on the detective, he was in fact sleeping deeply. John and Mary went to bed shortly after that, too.

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_A/N:_

_Please review._


	13. Chapter 13

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_Thank you all for your kind feedback, and for staying with me :)._

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**Chapter 13:**

**Saturday**

"Morning," Sherlock greeted the couple who were having breakfast at the dinner table.

"Hi, how was the concert?" Mary cheerfully asked.

"Good."

"Really? Not as bad as you expected with the people and all?" John gently teased.

"It was fun and I had a really nice evening," Sherlock said in a monotone voice that said quite the opposite.

"Is that bad lying or sarcasm?" Mary tucked at the detective's sleeve when he reached for the paper she had just finished, the gesture was supposed to underline a certain familiarity and John was glad Sherlock seemed to be okay with it.

"Fine," he answered.

"Sherlock, are you listening at all?"

"Absolutely."

Mary laughed about the clearly ridiculous chat.

Sherlock honoured her amusement with a small but poorly disguised sad grin, then shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a fresh tea, ignoring the coffee on the table.

When he returned to the living room, making moves to sit on the third chair, Mary stood up.

"Here, sit here, it's your place anyway. I'll meet a friend in an hour, I have to hurry."

She smiled at them and hurried up the stairs.

Sherlock sat down and poured four spoons of sugar into his tea.

"So, is there anything new about the case? We could get out, do some research." John offered, signalling he was fully available, "You know, do something… investigating, interviews, whatever."

"Not really any news… Lestrade is still looking for a way to get the server protocols and I'm still trying to figure out which components were used in the drug."

"Why is that so important? I mean you've been on this drug receipt since day one of the case."

"Because I think one or two ingredients might be quite exotic, and therefore hard to get, or at least it would attract attention to try to get them, legally or not. But as long as I'm not sure which ones were used, I can't start to search."

"How many nights have you spent experimenting with this now?"

"Stopped counting after the sixth," Sherlock hadn't looked up from his paper and now started to accentuate the vowels in his words.

"Oh… Not easy, then." John sensed the raising tension and tried to soothe a bit. " How does it help us if you find out what's in there?"

"I have narrowed it down, there are four possibilities of what the two missing mysterious components are and I just need to test them all, in different mixture ratios with the rest of the chemicals. Molly and I were also only able to narrow it down, not able to find out what they were even with the machines." Sherlock's speech gathered speed. "Which means hundreds of little tests. It's boring and time consuming. I tried to do it backwards in the beginning, finding an antidote first and hoping to find the solution by drawing conclusions what works and what not, but no such luck. It's a patience exercise."

John smiled about the last words.

"The fact that the first victim stated he felt very sick from the concoction makes me wonder who mixed it. Chances are high our villain does it himself or has it made specially for him by someone else, which would mean even more people know about this. Because no one mixes this and doesn't know what it is for. Well, it means the mixture was 'adjusted' to eliminate the side effect of nausea."

Sherlock had repeated to John and Mary what Mr White had said the same evening but they had not spoken of the case since.

"Lestrade texted last night, saying that it would take ages and days of paperwork to only file a motion to get access to the protocols, not to mention the… well, I'm quite sure he'll be refused, so there dies the one hot lead we have."

"Why is it so hot?"

"Can't you at least pretend to think sometimes?"

John decided to ignore the insult.

"Military?"

"Why do you ask, then?"

"I wanted to be nice, have a conversation, you know. Discussing things tends to solve problems, because due to the interaction new ideas can flourish. Conducting light kind of thing, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Didn't mean to…" Sherlock's tone changed to a mixture of friendly insecurity suddenly.

"So, tell me. Why military?" John asked when the other man seemed to not to be able to find the right words to finish the sentence.

"One of the men wore military boots, that's one of the few things Mr Black remembers."

"White, his name is White." John was wondering if this was Sherlock's kind of humour getting this name wrong in this particular way, he grinned, hoping to loosen the conversation a bit this way.

"Whatever," Sherlock dismissed it, sipping from his cup.

"Talked to Mycroft about the case?" the doctor decided to address the unpleasant topic.

"Superficially told him what was going on, I couldn't listen to my parent's all-day non-sense any longer, I needed a few minutes with something interesting in my mind, enjoying real thinking."

"Have you asked him to access to the server logs or something… or to run a face recognition software from CCTV footage?"

"Of course not! Don't be stupid, discussing this with half of the most high-ranking diplomats and ministers and royals around would be very dangerous for all of us, besides, I don't need his help… Or his bickering about my inability to solve it on my own," Sherlock spit.

"You should consider it, you can't solve anything without data, this is just collecting data, has nothing to do with you being able to solve the case. No one questions that," John tried to clarify. "The user of the nickname might have dropped out of the military early. Maybe within the first few months of training, since the nick was only used briefly as you said."

"Or he just didn't like it and changed it, or he wanted to distance himself from the question, which was a bit stupid, to be honest. There are thousands of possible reasons, one as plausible as the other. And I… " Sherlock explained.

"Hang on, considering how slow going this case is, and how badly we need the tiniest of clues I think you should ask him, Sherlock."

"Suggestion noted," Sherlock sat his cup onto the table with a hard 'clonk' and stood up.

He returned to the kitchen and sat down in front of the microscope, obviously not making any moves to text Mycroft.

John sighed and once more desperately searched his mind for ideas how to cheer Sherlock up a bit. But the next moment he remembered how he had thought about people trying to brighten him up after he had been shot, and then later, when the first symptoms of PTSD had shown.

The staff in the clinics he been in were often over-cheerful and over-enthusiastic all day, to an amount, that grated on his nerves. Their false smiling and laughing felt like a mentally clumsy and mocking effort, disparaged his suffering.

Was Sherlock feeling the same? Being forced to endure people trying to make him happy when there was nothing at all that could make the world good at the moment.

No, they weren't laughing and smiling and trying that in such a crude way with the detective. In fact, now that he thought about it, most of the time everybody seemed to have adopted a mourning and sad mood in the past weeks. Well, there was not much to be cheerful about, but were they all walking on eggshells? Probably.

John knew his own mood was not good, Mary tried to fit in and arranged with the moods she faced.

But it was more than clear that Sherlock had had no fun at all, trying to solve this case caused the opposite to what everyone had hoped. Also Sherlock wasn't appreciating good mood around him. But he wasn't happy with it when he was fine, too, so that it wouldn't be welcome now was no wonder.

.

That afternoon John decided to get some groceries, he needed some air. The detective was obviously not planning to leave the house at all, and John wanted something fresh for dinner, besides, the amount of sugar Sherlock used in his tea and coffee currently they'd be out of it this evening.

The former soldier had barely left the house and made it down the street a few metres when a black limousine came up behind him. John noticed the vehicle as it passed him and rolled his eyes when the door opened. He entered and found himself next to Mycroft.

"John? Good afternoon," the older Holmes greeted.

"Hi, what can I do for you?"

"I'm not sure… Our visit to the concert last night was… untypical. He barely spoke, was behaving not like his normal self," Mycroft stated without much of an introduction.

"I know."

"I'm at a loss, so are our parents, and I think it's time he takes some ADs, at least."

"What happened?"

"Nothing concrete. It's more what _not_ happened. He tried to be his usual self, but even his smugness felt staged. He had no fun teasing me, was not enthusiastically criticising my diet, nothing."

"You did this to make him feel better?"

"Yes, of course, my definition of fun does _not_ include listening to people creating sounds on instruments. I had quiet enough of those for a lifetime when Sherlock learned how to play the violin as a child. I'm not fond of this kind of entertainment."

"So, what is your definition of 'fun'?" John asked, just out of curiosity.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "I arranged last night to entertain my brother, and because my parents insisted to meet him again. We are worried."

"I know, me too. He's getting worse in the past days. We are way past the point were even I would recommend a patient takes ADs."

"That sounds like a good idea in my opinion."

"Did he ever take antidepressants?"

"Yes."

"What did you do to convince him to take them?"

"I'd rather not talk about it… besides it's not a persuasive precedent."

"Oh, right… Er, you don't happen to know what it was and if it worked?"

"I'll have a look at the documents."

John raised his eyebrows. Had Mycroft everything in his files?

"But let me warn you, he'll not like the idea, but I assume, you already guessed that."

"Yes."

"I'd be profoundly grateful if you manage to convince him to try it again, since he wouldn't listen to me anyway. You are probably the only person that has a chance to get listened to."

"Of course, I'll do my best," John promised. "Can you do me a favour? In case he asks you for help with the current case, don't be smug or teasing or whatever, just do what you can. He's additionally self-loathing because he can't solve it. He'd be better if he had at least a bit of success with finding some clues… something… anything! He needs information Lestrade can't get."

"Naturally I need a bit more background information than what he told me last night to start digging."

"Well, why don't you come up with me and we talk about the case?"

"You don't honestly think he'll welcome it, that you asked me, I mean?"

"No. So, we need a pretextual reason to explain your visit."

"Forget it, he'll know, no matter what we plan."

"Right. Let's just tell him, then."

"That might jeopardise the rest of acceptance I still get from him," Mycroft said.

"Yes, but it can't go on like this."

"No, it can't."

"This is stagnation. No changes for days. I fear he'll kind of… explode or whatever soon. Nothing is happening and it's making him mad. And mentally… I mean, this back and forth is normal for a person in his state, having bad thoughts over and over again and having to be reassured and meanwhile doubting everything and everybody's motives. It's what makes this all so hard to endure, the setbacks and the thoughts moving in circles, but… he needs a lift in morale, urgently… and… he's resisting my suggestions and tries to help enough already," John explained with a sad undertone.

"He's getting worse when alone. I know. As long as you were babysitting all day around he was distracted. He's getting worse without you."

"Bloody hell, I know that, are you trying to put additional pressure on me, make me feel even worse with this whole desaster?…" John was getting angry, this was hard enough. "You know I _am_ already not really well with this all. I fear my presence might be not enough and that he will turn away. Could you please not add to that!"

"I was just pointing out a problem, not at all blaming you. You are already doing much more than I expected. I feared you'd punch him and then never speak to him again, and to be honest, part of me tells me he'd have deserved it."

"But the other part… that government one, I mean, is telling you that you that the end justifies the means and therefore it was all the right way to act." John felt he was getting pissed again. Better cool down, this was not helping! He bite his lips before saying another word about how Mycroft had been to blame to create the situation in the beginning.

"I might be glad about the outcome, Moriarty's web destroyed, though I'm not glad about the consequences, but they were unavoidable, yes. I want to help now, assist the both of you, it's the least I can do for taking part in saving us all, and what you endured. Since it was partially my fault as you say, so… I was not at all blaming you, quite the opposite. I think the fact that he still hasn't turned to drugs or lost it, is due to your presence and efforts, for which I am grateful. I wanted to say we need a solution for this, since you can't make you follow him around 24/7 for the upcoming months. Suggestions?"

"No…" John huffed out sadly.

"Me neither. It worries me…"

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"So, the best thing I can do right now is help solving the case… I better come by later and bring something from our parents, something they forgot to give him last night… and then get involved into the proceedings."

"Okay, see you then."

John was dropped of in from of his favourite grocery store, and went ahead with the shopping, but he was distracted with thinking about how to solve this.

.

When he came back home Sherlock was staring down his microscope while experimenting.

John stored away the food and the milk while Sherlock dropped liquids onto slides and petri dishes, made notes and crossed out numbers.

They worked in silence until suddenly Sherlock jumped up from the table as if stung.

"Oh!" he yelled.

"What? What is it?" John's first reaction was to search the other man for injuries or blood, but Sherlock once more leaned over the eyepiece cups.

"Look!" he gestured John to take a look himself.

John did, jacket still on, "What am I seeing?"

"It's the right one, it's this one!" Sherlock cheered.

"All right, so… you know what's exactly in there, now?"

"Yes! Now I only have to figure out the right ratio, sort of fine tune it."

"Good!" John praised.

"Where's my phone?" Sherlock looked around in searching mode while John got rid of his coat.

The doctor returned to the room in time to see Sherlock stand up and sway, he had to hold onto the doorframe.

"Sherlock, when have you last eaten?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does, when?"

"Sugar, this morning."

John sighed once more, it seemed he had done this quite often today already.

"Sherlock, you…."

"Not now! For days this is the first good tail I found, could you not destroy it by pestering me with the nastiness of my transport!" Sherlock hissed. "Phone… phone…" The detective started running through the flat looking for it, until he remembered he had placed it into his dressing gown pocket, which was now with the other dirty laundry in a basket in his room.

John mercifully kept his mouth shut and started to unpack the groceries, looking a bit frustrated, though. But Sherlock had no time for this now, he needed to do some research and call Lestrade.

He let himself fall into his chair in front of his laptop and started typing enthusiastically.

John frantically thought about how to busy himself without appearing to be hovering in a bad way and ended up with cleaning the kitchen, it was needed anyway before anyone could think of cooking dinner.

After a few minutes of typing and reading Sherlock finally dialled.

"Lestrade? I need you to send out somebody to the following distributors and find out if they recently sold one of the following…." Sherlock recited a long list of chemicals, then names of firms with addresses. "Monday?… No, now!… Why?…. Oh."

Lestrade must have told him it was Saturday and probably the DI wasn't even at Scotland Yard, and also that the firms were closed on weekends.

"Oh, I'll check the unofficial dealers, then… Why don't you come by and have a beer with him, I am sure he'd be delighted to have company tonight." Sherlock hung up without a greeting and resumed typing.

"What are you doing? Did you just invite Greg for a beer, with only me?"

"He'll check the pharmaceutical firms on Monday, I'll see some dealers tonight, plenty of time for you to do some… whatever you do at a pub when hanging around with him there… Beer's in the fridge."

"I'd prefer to come with you, to be honest."

Sherlock would have liked to hear that on almost every other occasion that this one.

"Er…." he hesitated, "…better not. They know me and are not fond of people they don't know, I might not learn what I want to know if you are present."

John was quite alarmed about this, but hoped Sherlock would not sense it immediately, he seemed a bit less attentive to people's behaviour lately. Or was he just too distracted by his own misery?

Was this a danger night? Was Sherlock trying to get him and Greg out of the way?

The doctor feared Sherlock could be tempted to turn to drugs by meeting people form that particular scene again? Would he ask for more than information?

John tried to keep his face relaxed, but decided to take a look into Sherlock's room later, as soon as he was on his way. To search for any drug paraphernalia, just to be sure.

As bad as Sherlock felt at the moment it made him very vulnerable to escape the cruelty of the world in such a way.

John couldn't blame him for the wish to escape his personal hell, he knew to well how it felt to wander in it. The urge to get some rest from it all might be strong enough to make Sherlock have a relapse.

The consulting detective was already retreating and John didn't want to do anything to drive him away faster, but he needed to keep him safe. The doctor fled to his room for a bit, because he felt he was getting increasingly nervous, the more he thought about it. He started cleaning the upstairs room, too, to make it more cosy for Mary and him.

He added a few things he had brought back a few days ago, a bit unsure if this was sending wrong signals to Mary. He left all the doors open, to hear exactly what was going on downstairs.

Sherlock continued to experiment.

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_Thank you for reading._


	14. Chapter 14

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands __and no profit is being made__._

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**Chapter 14:**

**Saturday afternoon, Sherlock's POV**

When John left the flat to get groceries Sherlock hesitated, on one hand he didn't want him to leave without him, on the other it seemed childish and on the third hand he wanted to continue the experiments.

It was making him… _something_, angry maybe, that there was no progress in the case. It couldn't be that he had become such an imbecile, unable to solve anything, it added to his feeling of being a wreck.

He hoped John would be back soon, not allow himself to be kidnapped or whatever on the way.

Sherlock leaned back in the kitchen chair, he was sitting in front of the microscope and had just changed the slides.

What exactly was it, that his mind was so unsettled about?

He felt _so_ much lately, it was disorienting. So much useless information that was disturbing his concentration. He stood up to make another coffee.

He needed to focus!

Two years ago he'd have done these experiments in half the time. He was slow, dysfunctional and it was getting increasingly on his nerves. He knew he must be giving the impression to be angry or pissed or… _something_, but no clue where it came from.

Deep in thoughts he had finished preparing the beverage and sat down again with the mug.

After the third sip he realised the coffee was way to hot to drink, he had just burned his pharynx. It was not the first time this happened, he had just dimmed the pain reception down far too low, one more reminder of what a mess he was. He couldn't control anything, not his mind, not his body and not the case. It was disgusting. And the coping mechanisms caused more havoc than good. They were useless, so carefully chosen and established and now he understood they were just… nonsense. Something empty that only seemed to help but in the end it heightened the problem because it was just a stupid coping mechanism. How long before he'd hit a wall that would make him finally crumple?

How long would it be until John would leave because he was disgusted, too? Or should he make sure John was not here when it happened, better spare him the sight? He felt something else slowly shooting up in his torso, desperation and… fear? It was making him nauseous, the experience and the idea that it was really fear he was suffering.

Mary had said they wanted to help, but… people only said that, right? As soon as it goes rough they'd leave. They only offered to be polite, but no one really would stay through it. Also, no one had the right to request something like this from other people, crippling their lives, too, because one wasn't able to get over one's own problems. It was not okay to ask for such a thing, not even okay to accept it when it was offered, that was what he had learned in his youth.

Once more Sherlock felt betrayed by the falseness of the world and the stupidity of existence, and especially human society with it's useless platitudes and superficial or false emotions.

There was an emotion in his mind right now, what would be the right term? It was like a hidden area in his mind that was experiencing pressure, but he couldn't find it, neither to release the stress nor to prevent some ominous event. Unsettled would probably describe it well enough. It had an aspect of being pissed, definitely, something near bursting… and something that wanted to scream because it was all so wrong and unfair… Quite an alarming feeling, he tagged it with a 'dial down' order.

He should have known, he should have killed any hopes and wants to return to life when they started to rise in the beginning. Instead he had let them grow the more he had destroyed of Moriarty's web. He had started to hope to return, to make it all good again. Why had he been so dumb? He should have known better. He should have known that everything in his life that was only the tiniest hint of good would be taken away from him or destroyed sooner or later. He had been through that often enough to recognise the pattern, during school, during university. As soon as he found something in his life he liked, others had come and destroyed it, often out of pure spite.

He remembered the first time he had seen that pattern clearly. He had tried to built a house of cards when they had been on a field trip on a large boat. He just wanted to try it, it was a challenge, a bit nuts, but funny. He must have been about fourteen. It was about wanting to know if he could manage, and he had sat down in the mess hall of the small ship.

He had built the thing quite large, so in the end it would have at least ten or eleven storeys. The thing was, he had steady hands and managed to built it to the last but one storey without great problems, peer had informed him of stupid the idea was but not interfered. Then one of his classmates had come by and taken away a card from the bottom level, which caused the collapse of the structure.

He remembered he had been stunned how she could be so mean, to end a try like this in such a brute way, but people were mean and he was supposed to bounce back and try again. Because giving up was not allowed and childish.

So he had tried again. This time he made it to the second to last storey and again she came by and made it collapse.

That day he had learned a lesson. He had not tried again, because he understood that he _would_ be able to manage enormous tasks, but he'd never reach them because of the disgrace and meanness of other's.

It was even more frustrating because he wasn't boycotted by those who wanted to reach a goal first, which he could at least comprehend, even though he'd himself never come to such an idea as a child, only as a grown up he had adapted this when it came to safe human lives or solve crimes. He had learned that people destroyed ideas and minds and great things out of fun or the enjoyment they got out of spite. It was a concept he never understood but had been so often the aim of.

He held the hot mug to his brow, something else inside him was squirming he couldn't name. It was like a hunger for something. Mental hunger. For what? Maybe the same emotion like that one threatening to burst, just in a different manifestation?

This was so tiring, why weren't even emotions pure? Why were they an undistinguishable mix?

He didn't know how he felt and why and how to make it stop. The last one became more and more of a problem the last days. The urge was to just make it go away. Make the mental agony stop that was tormenting him day and night. Though he was managing to cage the memories that sprung up at day quite well, at night it was still hard… and he was so very tired.

Hadn't confronted himself with the smell of blood since the night it had caught him off guard and he had thrown up and felt sick for half the night after entering his room. The faint smell still lingered and… he put the mug down with a hard noise, he realised he was avoiding his room therefore.

This must stop! Had he allowed things to slacken by not confronting himself with the same intensity for days? No wonder it wasn't working. He was getting mellow and it was gross. He didn't like being that way and he'd not allow himself to glide down that surface.

With a jerky movement he stood up and opened the fridge, the beer bottles produced clanking noises due to the deft movement. No one had drank any beer, probably their primary goal was to get away from him, not having a pint when they met at a pub. He should have known, by buying it he had just embarrassed himself. No one wanted him around. People who had said they did in the past, had only said it because it was impolite to say the opposite and decorum forced them to utter such things. What right had he to believe he was allowed to burden John with his presence? John would be happy with Mary and children and he had no right to disturb his plans of a happy family.

He reached for one of the blood samples Mary had taken earlier and poured it into a small drinking glass.

The smell made him clench his teeth but he concentrated on accepting it's presence and that it was part of his body.

Remember how it had smelled before the cellar. Try to connect that old feeling with the present, circumventing the reminder of the dungeon.

He suddenly sensed he was breathing heavily and leaning against the counter, his knees felt weak.

Anger about his weakness suddenly rose and with stubborn determination he pushed himself away from the surface and returned to the microscope.

Half an hour later he was shivering from freezing and covered in sweat at the same time. The sensation was really getting to him.

Body temperature control seems to be broken, sweating profoundly more and more often lately, although the flat was rather cold, a bit odd.

John had complained that he had turned down the heating on several occasions. Now he had to admit, it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, it was his body that was malfunctioning. Cooling down the environment didn't help. He was soaked in sweat no matter which temperature the air had. Ugly lilac sensation, like his skin was hot, but his core crumpled with grey coldness, and cold matte needles were piercing the hot skin all over his body from the outside.

He had to acknowledge that this was another feeling he didn't know, or was it a sensation? His transport going nuts and he had not a single idea what caused this.

The drops of sweat once more ran down the sides of his torso, the shirt started to stick to his skin.

In frustration he threw the pencil to the table and switched off the microscope, then hurried to retreat into the bathroom for a hot shower, hoping it would warm his core at least a bit.

Before John no-one had even raised an eyebrow about the fact that he was missing. The two years of his hiatus had been a bit like that before-John time. It made him remember how it felt to be a no-one, a shadow, ignored by society and alone. The concept had become strange to him while living with John.

Since his flatmate had been almost always there while they shared the flat, he had grown into his reality with the implicitness and steadiness of a tree growing into the ground. He had been so used to it, had totally forgotten how it felt _not_ to be missed, having no one to return to, and being out of this companion. It made him feel homeless again and young and… lost. The intensity ob John's absence had hit him on several occasions, until it had started to make him physically sick, about six months ago when he was in Asia.

The time in the temple, while he was waiting for the woman to appear, had been literally a life saver, the monks had helped him, without him even noticing in the beginning. First the meaning of everything they said and did seemed to be hidden behind a veil of words, he couldn't understand, he just accepted and stored it. Their meaning, it was 'emotional' translated into 'mystical' into 'English', but after a time he had gathered strength due to their care, he didn't even realise they were giving him. At some point he had begun to translate and then to understand. It had helped, it had been good for him, their wisdom a guide in the dark.

In the end it turned out to be the only place he was not eager to leave after his task was done, he considered staying a bit longer, gather strength, but he knew he needed to arrive in Germany at a certain date to be there in time for a trial.

He had been better for a few weeks, until he was stranded in Hamburg, where he found he couldn't outrun how bad he needed to get back home.

He wondered if this was what people called homesick, but the thing he missed most was John, then the flat, then his violin and only then London, in that order. So he assumed homesick wasn't the right term.

He was desperate to know how John was and it had felt like physical pain to not just take the phone and call him, it had become a constant nagging feeling to miss, it ached and squirmed in misery somewhere in the back of his mind.

This reminded him why caring was an disadvantage, feeling this and being hindered by it made the work more dangerous. But he had felt absolutely sure that once he was back in London everything would be fine. It hadn't occurred to him in any variation that it might not. He had been so naïve…

Sherlock felt the hot water run down his back and shivered when he realised, that if he had known, he'd probably not made it back here. He'd have given up back then, he'd just let them do their jobs and slip away, let them kill him.

He tried to remind himself that John would never ever forgive him if he went away like that again, so this was not an option. He had to endure it, but he was so tired. Some part of his mind demanded rest and a short while without the darkness around him, to breathe again, to see some light, so gather some energy. He wanted a pause, be oblivious to all the problems. He knew there was a chemical solution to his needs, morphine. Maybe it would be good to have some in the house. Had John some in his medical bag? Probably not, Mycroft would have removed it even if he had.

John would yell at him and be angry if he took meds like this on his own. But at least then it all would be over. Was he ready to throw John out for the doctor's own good, after such a long time missing him and longing for his presence. No. In the end though he knew he'd have to be rude to protect John from himself, if he wasn't managing to get better. His self-loathing raised up another notch. He was what would cause this to fail, John was trying but he was not able to receive and make his efforts effective. It was his fault! He did it all wrong in the beginning and now continued. He was damaging every good in his life himself now. Maybe he should torturing everybody with his presence. He was no good, not to the case, not to John, not to the victims and not to Lestrade. He was a burden, nothing else. But John would be damaged if he refused him and left again, that was what he had asserted, and Mary had, too.

He reached for the towels and started to dry himself not freezing felt good. The heat of the water had made his skin red, hot water was nice.

Back to work, the dull process of trying every combination of mixture of the components that was possible. He had wished to be home and have his equipment some days, had looked forward to use it again, but now he was not enjoying it, the feeling was empty, the promised delight missing.

John would be back soon, better remove the blood.

He returned to the kitchen and the smell of blood hit him like a blow to the diaphragm. He stood in the door and held onto the frame for what felt like a long time, until he tamed the wild panic that was raging in his chest. It took a few minutes until he managed to step over to the table where the glass with the dark red liquid sat indifferently. He picked it up and brought it to the windowsill of his room, John wouldn't like his kitchen to smell like this.

Ten minutes later the fight against the emotions still lasted at some level of consciousness, although he did his best to contain the sentiments, the fight left him wet from perspire and miserably cold again, he wanted relieve he detected once more, not good, shoving the thought away. He wondered if he had felt warm at all in the past days… and an image sprang to his mind. John sneaking into his room when the doctor thought he was sleeping, checking on him, a warm secure sensation. It had happened several times since his return, John appearing when he was only half aware, just making sure he was there and not in too much distress. Would anybody do such things out of politeness or was it honest care?

Ashamed of himself he considered the possibility that John was honestly caring and it was him, who was afraid to like it or trust that it was a good thing. That was what Mary had said, hadn't she? He was once more disoriented by the multiple directions and variations of human behaviour, it was all so confusing… At least he hadn't thrown up when he was caught off guard by the smell this time, he hoped it was a sign the confrontation was working.

Heavily, he sat down at the table, continued to test the combinations of drug ingredients.

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_A/N:_

_I'd be delighted if readers gift me with feedback. Constructive criticism welcome._


	15. Chapter 15

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Special thanks to my loyal readers who stick with me (I feel I did a lousy job with the last two chapters, not sure why, fear they were boring or bad or whatever) and especially those who give me feedback. Thank you guys for staying, you're great!_

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**Chapter 15**

**Saturday, late afternoon**

Two hours after John had returned and Sherlock had found the key ingredients of the drug cocktail, there was a knock on the kitchen door.

"Expecting visitors?" John asked.

"No. It's my brother. Umbrella tip against the floor, though he carried it as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs."

"Come in, living room," John yelled over the sound of the telly.

"What do you want?" Sherlock greeted his brother rudely.

"Mummy left this for you, she forgot to give it to you before."

Mycroft handed him a large package of what looked like special blends of coffee and tea.

"Thank her for me."

"You'll do it, it's the least you can do. You know how much she'd like to hear from you now and then. Now you have an excuse to please her, take it… and thank her for last night. Show gratefulness for a change."

John looked at the ceiling in annoyance. Hadn't they just talked about Mycroft not being smug a few hours ago?

Sherlock returned to type something on his laptop, as if his brother wasn't there.

Mycroft started to inspect the case notes and pictures that littered the room.

"So, this is the case you are currently working on? You woke my interest in this puzzle last night, it seems to be quite a difficult one."

"Are you here to gloat? Go away, I might have a trail and I need to work on it."

"One of my colleagues introduced me to a new face recognition software, he was eager to test it. Do you have a picture?" Mycroft asked casually.

"We only have sketches, useless for this kind of programs."

"Yes, they are. What _do_ you have?"

"Nothing, or I'd have solved it already!" Sherlock exploded, "What do you want?"

"Entertainment, to be honest. My schedule today is extraordinary dull and I'd prefer to play deducing with you rather than attend a meeting with… but that's no business of yours."

Sherlock eyed the other Holmes suspiciously.

"Are they still in London?"

"Our parents? No, they left this morning, after breakfast. I was referring to some people at… work."

Sherlock seemed not interested to introduce Mycroft to the case and when John realised that, he decided to interfere.

"Actually Mycroft, there might be a thing Lestrade can't do, official channels are just too slow and… the military might refuse to help if he does manage anyway."

John felt Sherlock's unnerved and angry gaze on his back, but he ignored it.

"Oh, military, what is it? Of course I can't promise to be of any help, but it might be worth a try."

When John started to explain, it deliberately did a lousy job, in order to make Sherlock take over, then John let him when he did.

In the end Mycroft announced that he was sure he'd be able to find out who had used the nick, if the data still existed at least, and he promised to try, a few minutes later he was gone again.

Sherlock's mood seemed to be in a temperature range that was close to freezing by then. John therefore decided to make some tea and then wait until the atmosphere had changed to something distinctly positive before heading to his next topic, antidepressants.

But the detective was not eager to let himself being dragged into a conversation and answered John's questions with monosyllables while he continued to experiment.

The doctor had thought now that he knew the drug he'd stop, but the chemist tested and tested.

John waited about an hour before he finally dared to start discussing the subject.

"Sherlock, I want to talk to you about something, can you listen for a moment?"

"If you must."

"During the last days… I had the impression you were not really with us, you seem to be… away. Er, concentrated inwards and… in quite a dark mood. Often, I have the impression your body is physically present, but your mind is somewhere else, far away and wandering in things that don't do you any good, and I don't mean the case. You're working on autopilot most of the day, aren't you? You're not really paying attention the physical world. And I… I wondered if you'd let me prescribe some ADs for you, nothing severe, just some mild stuff."

Sherlock halted mid movement, not looking up, though. He didn't respond for almost ten seconds.

John hoped he was really considering the offer, but then Sherlock continued the begun movement and answered with an almost huffed,

"No."

John hesitated, not wanting to give in that fast.

"I think it would make things a bit easier on you and help you gather some strength. You know, you wouldn't need so much effort to keep depressive thoughts at bay and therefore can concentrate on the important things."

"I… said… No!" Sherlock repeated, now with a slightly threatening undertone.

"Oh, come on, it's not that I suggest you take the heavy duty stuff, I just want to aid a bit with this. Be honest, you'd profit from that."

"I'll surely not profit from things that will dull my thought processes, kill my motivation, make me drowsy and my legs restless! I usually suffer more from the side effects than from the benefits of those medications, therefore I _will not_ take any of those!" the last words were spoken quite loudly and to underline the message Sherlock let his flat hand hit the table which send the jars and beakers clinging.

The doctor flinched about the controlled anger that Sherlock was broadcasting.

"Alright, then," he said with a firm voice and returned to the living room, sitting down in front of the telly.

.

Another two hours later he had gathered enough courage to approach Sherlock again, this time he suggested to do another mind palace session, but the offer was turned down in a similar way, only this time Sherlock seemed not as pissed as before.

Instead he sounded tired and demanded to be left alone, which made John even more alarmed, feeling unable to help and being sent away. When he tried to convince Sherlock to give it a try the detective retreated to his room and banged the door shut after himself.

John stood drained and out of ideas in the kitchen, wondering why it was all going so wrong.

.

Late that night Sherlock met his former dealers and some new ones, the latter were recommended by the ones he knew well. Of course he was offered a variety of drugs on almost every meeting, and of course he had known it would happen the moment he had made up his mind to seek for information in this circles.

In fact, he had thought about seeking chemical relief repeatedly in the past months, he hadn't given in, but now… now, that everything was in pieces, he wondered what to fight for. The conversation with John had even underlined the argument to take something, to help his mind rest, though not in a way John would approve.

It couldn't happen, he wasn't allowed to… No! The will to fight was brought back by the thought of John, for a few hours at least.

It was gone when he finally stood in front of his most reliable dealer, the one with the best quality stuff, and the man offered him cocaine. He was able to decline, but then bought some morphine pills. Pills, because they were less obvious and less risky to cause addiction, chances were higher to get addicted by injections.

They were just to have them in the house, for emergencies. He'd store them away and wouldn't use them if not absolutely necessary.

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the cab and he realised it was ridiculous. The dealer had slipped a vial of liquid Morphine Sulphate into his coat pocket when he was about to leave, had told him it was a bonus for coming back, and that he was always available and could get almost everything Sherlock wanted, except the things Sherlock actually needed for the case.

But he didn't give the vial back, it would have made him suspicious. He just shoved the thought away that it was there and concentrated on the case.

Now, that he was sitting in the car he wondered if that had been deliberate.

He decided John mustn't know, and that was when it dawned on him, he had already a subconscious idea of what would happen, and that he'd succumb to the need to get some peace and rest from the cruelty of his current existence.

John was right, he needed a pause, relief… but he needed to be careful, John couldn't know, he'd tell Mycroft and his brother would make his life even more miserable than it already was.

He needed to be strict, exercise control, only take _one_ pill in dire need, not slide down the road of addiction, keep the addictive factors as low as possible.

With a huff of sarcasm, that made the cabbie look at him in the rear-vision mirror, he understood he _was_ weak and had fallen into his own trap already, out of habit.

He immediately had a bad conscience about his own thoughts, but a few moments later he let it all drop, because it didn't matter, his world was gone, he was broken, everything was lost, he couldn't do this any longer, nothing mattered anymore. John would be better without him and the sooner he'd realise that and give up pretending to want to help the sooner this ordeal was over, for both of them.

Maybe he should retreat to Leinster Gardens and try the purchase, but that would probably cause that Mycroft was alerted before midnight, and from that moment he couldn't move around freely in London any longer. Avoiding Mycroft's cameras would be time consuming and troublesome. Also, it contained the chance that Mycroft found out about his bolthole, and that was the last he needed, this one was supposed to be a secret from _everyone_, his last resort.

So he headed back home, the only thing he had learned was that a person, who roughly fitted the description of the suspect, had tried to buy ingredients from someone. A person one of the dealers knew, but he hadn't spoken to anyone who actually had contact with the man or was able to describe him more than superficial, it was all hearsay. Some of them now knew where Sherlock could get the ingredients, because the suspect's request had made people attentive to the stuff, but Sherlock had his own source and wasn't interested in buying more. So one more trail getting cold.

Miserable and once more frustrated he sat in the back of the cab, shivering, outside a wet mixture of snow and freezing rain stormed against the windshield.

Would Lestrade be with John? Better be prepared he was.

He felt the vials in his right coat pocket as he reached for his phone.

The detective decided to make a detour to get some stuff from Molly, he was not eager to meet the inspector with the items bought. Besides, he had made it a rule to always have Naloxon in stock when he had drugs in the house, too. Also, he wanted some more blood to be drawn and suspected Molly would be easier to persuade than Mary or John.

As soon as Molly had answered his text and told him that she was on duty he ordered the driver to change designation.

.

One hour later he stopped another taxi, now intending to head home.

Successful meeting, Molly had drawn half a litre of blood, which would be enough for loads of self made confrontation therapy days, and he had nicked meds and syringes. By now chances were high Lestrade would been gone. It was past one in the morning and Molly had been delighted to have company on her boring night shift.

Sherlock had just told the cabbie his home address when his phone broadcasted the arrival of a text.

_'Where are you? JW'_

_'On my way back home. Lestrade still there? SH'_

_'Wasn't here. How long? JW'_

Sherlock didn't reply the last one and made sure everything was neatly stored in his coat so that it couldn't be seen or looked suspicious.

He assumed John was still downstairs and waiting for him, the tone of the text. Would he pelt him with questions? How he knew John he'd be aware this might be a danger night, and now Sherlock understood it was in fact one.

A moment later he sank deeper into the seat and thought about how this was not one in the sense Mycroft meant it, it was more like he needed rest and sleep than he was tempted to get high from cocaine.

Suddenly he was aware his body was pestering him with increasing exhaustion and for once he was ready to give it what it wanted, rest, but his mind needed some rest, too, and he wouldn't get any without a little chemical help. John had suggested it himself.

Filling the blood donation kit might have added to his tiredness, and he briefly wondered when he had eaten last before deciding it didn't matter.

He had in fact felt dizzy while Molly had slowly tilted the bag this way and that to keep the blood from lumping as they watched the red liquid filling it slowly.

Sherlock arrived home about fifteen minutes later. As expected, John sat in his armchair, idly reading a magazine.

He looked up when Sherlock entered, the detective felt his intense gaze scan him thoroughly.

"Found something?"

"Not really."

"That means what exactly?" John seemed a bit on the edge, his tone was tense.

"One of the dealers knows someone who has met our suspect, but nothing concrete and I was not able to meet that person myself.'

Sherlock felt the next logical question coming, the one he had before hoped would not be asked.

"Bought something?"

Sherlock had passed him and was half across the kitchen, when John asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," he loudly answered, and hurried into the bathroom, where he planned to hide the medications for now. His room was too risky, the surveillance cameras. He'd bring it to his room later, when the situation was more relaxed.

He closed the door behind him and heard John followed him. Good choice to go to the bathroom, John would have followed him into his room without hesitance.

He hurried to slip the syringes and vials into the space behind a glazed removable tile under the bathtub, then pretended to wash his hands, better talk to avoid suspicion.

"Didn't Greg show up?" he was sure John was standing outside the door and spoke in a normal voice therefore.

"Called and asked me if we could do it some other time, emergency call from the yard," John replied immediately.

"Our case?"

"Didn't say."

"Did you ask?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He'd tell me. No need to get on his nerves."

Sherlock opened the door and saw John leaning on the wall opposite the door, arms crossed.

Searching for his phone in his pocket Sherlock headed into the kitchen, as predicted John followed him.

He removed the well packed blood transfusion bag from his other pocket and returned to the kitchen, hoping his former flatmate would stop following him around because it felt ludicrous, he opened the fridge to place the small bundle inside.

"What's that?"

"Human body fluids."

"Right, visited Molly, then?"

"Obviously."

"How is she?"

What kind of a stupid question was that?

"I assume she was bored and delighted about my visit, at least that's what she said."

'"Just a friendly visit, then?"

"Yes, of course. Is there a deeper meaning in this? I start to feel constrained."

"I just need to be sure if this is a danger night or not," John unbagged the cat.

"Oh, for god's sake!" Sherlock hurried passed him and into his room, the doctor followed suit, slower though this time, "Did you inform my brother already or do I have to endure more insulting questions by _you_?"

He hung up his coat, to the back of the door and then unbuttoned his jacket.

"You look like hell, what happened?" the doctor changed topics suddenly.

"I _am_ tired and would prefer some peace and quiet," Sherlock admitted. "And I'd like to change."

"To do what?"

"John, do you honestly believe if I was about to take..." he paused "The only thing that is happening as a result from these questions is that I'm getting unnerved, nothing else." If he'd be able to go to John and tell him he planned to take drugs, he'd be in the same state of mind that would _prevent_ him from taking them, therefore the dialogue was absolute non-sense. He wondered if John would understand this causality, or if it was too abstract, but if he did, he'd probably not ask.

"Shit, Sherlock, why don't you trust me with this?"

"I do trust you."

"Obviously not to an amount that tells you to come to me with this kind of stuff," John turned away and went into the kitchen, stopping there rubbing his face. He felt betrayed and frustrated, and more desperate about the situation than in the past days.

"You are the only person I trust," Sherlock said after him, in a rather low voice.

"Well, obviously it's not enough."

John had heard him, listened. He hadn't expected that and was caught a bit off guard by it.

"Are you deliberately hurting yourself? Because that's what this looks like. No one can be this blind and dumb with his body's needs. I don't know what you did or why or if it included drugs, but this feels like you'll kill yourself sooner or later."

The detective needed a moment to understand John was not solely talking about the taking-drugs-group of themes but his general health. He indeed felt heavy and standing seemed to be an growing effort. He should get some coffee with sugar, soon.

He threw his jacket at the bed and slipped into his dressing gown, when he tied the belt he saw he was shivering, from the cold or from the stress or whatever.

Then he strode past John into the kitchen, putting the kettle on.

"Are you cold?"

"Yes, in fact I am," putting John's mind at rest accommodating him a bit. "It's sleeting." He sensed something tugging at his mind, he hadn't used the word in ages, hadn't felt cold icy half frozen rain on his face.

The last time had been when…

…When… the tugging grew stronger, and suddenly became so intense he felt his mind tumble into it, a wet mixture of ice and snow hitting his face, making him gasp in surprise.

He was beyond exhausted and wasn't even able to get out of the weather, lying in a puddle of melting water with traces of his own blood, staring into the cloudy sky.

He tried to get up, but his body was to weak, he was trembling with cold and exhaustion.

Boneless, he collapsed into the ground once more and felt his whole body was freezing and soaking wet. When his head fell to the concrete ground he didn't even feel pain.

How did he get here?

Where was _here_?

Then it hit him with the urgency of a holding a firework rocket… He had swam through the river to safe escape.

But the fight hadn't been over the moment he reached the other side of the river. Small ice floes had cut him while he had fought for his life in the disgustingly cold water. He had dived to avoid the bullets of his chaser, but the man had obviously decided to let him go, not eager to jump into a freezing stream in the dark of the early morning.

Sherlock had been dragged downstream quite a distance before he had managed to cling onto an rotting landing stage with his stiff fingers.

It must have been only minutes ago, otherwise he'd be frozen to death already and not feeling anything any longer.

He needed to get out of the cold soon, his chances of survival were decreasing every second he spent outside. Stiffly he rolled over and saw an old ruinous industrial building about fifty metres away. The rural landscape seemed otherwise deserted, no cars or people anywhere to be seen. Three large thin chimneys were ominously hovering above him in the early morning sky, one slightly listing to the left.

He needed to move! Now! He needed to survive to get back to London, to John. He couldn't die like this, he needed to get his sorry ass moving!

Slowly managed to move towards the building, kept alive only by the stubborn refusal to die here alone, his clothes and limbs were stiff from the cold, hindering his movements.

More stumbling and crawling than walking he reached a large room, which led to another, that opened up into something that seemed to be an old terminal inside the building or adjacent to it, he was only dimly aware of his surroundings now.

He needed shelter and to get rid of this clothes. To his great surprise he spotted something that looked like a stack of old burlap bags, rotting and… he dragged himself closer… with an old holey sleeping bag on top of it. If he didn't get out of the wet clothes fast he'd be dead in a few hours, no choice, then, this smelly bundle of fabrics might be his life saver.

He had trouble getting out of the wet trousers and fell twice during the process. His fingers were bleeding when he finally managed to crawl inside the smelly bedroll. He wondered briefly if there were rats, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was getting warm.

He resurfaced some time later, realising he had - against his will - fallen asleep.

He was in severe pain and it took some time until he was able to eye his surroundings closer. A flickering light in the distance… it was a fire!

He sat up, terrified.

Someone was here!

The sudden movement brought an intense wave of pain and he must have passed out once more. Because the next thing he knew was someone was trying to instil him with a warm liquid. Rough hands pried open his mouth and he heard muttering in a language he knew he spoke, but that was momentarily not translated by his muddled brain.

He tried to shove the hands away, only to realise he was to weak to even raise his eyelids, much less his hands. The faint smell of stale beer was in the air.

He felt at the mercy of a stranger and betrayed by his transport, that was no longer able to do the slightest bit to preserve it's own life.

His mind panicked and when he helplessly started to hyperventilate his body surrendered and he fell back into a deep unconsciousness.

The moment he lost consciousness in his memory he regained self awareness back in reality.

Gasping, his mind returned to his body in Baker Street.

"Sherlock?"

John sounded as if panicking himself, why was John here?

"Mary?" John yelled. "Mary, I need help!"

But that was the last Sherlock knew because moments later his body finally decided it needed to force a break and switched him off.

He had lost consciousness before he knew what was happening.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:  
__Sorry for the long chapter, I felt unable to divide it and was in some dire need for a bit good old h/c. Comforts in the next chapter, though.  
_

_Please review. _

_Constructive criticism welcome._


	16. Chapter 16

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thank you, everyone who took their time and gave me feedback, you're great!_

**…**

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**…**

**Chapter 16**

**Sunday - early hours of the morning**

"Are you cold?" John asked the shivering Sherlock.

"Yes, in fact I am… It's sleeting." Sherlock admitted.

John looked at him closer, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Had Sherlock taken something?

He _really_ looked like about to keel over.

Then Sherlock's mouth slowly opened again, as if he was about to say something else, but instead he just breathed, like someone who is stunned by something sudden.

John frowned and looked at Sherlock's eyes, there were blindly staring ahead now.

"Sherlock?"

His former flatmate didn't react.

"Hey, are you with me?" John stepped closer, eying Sherlock intensely.

Sherlock continued to tremble as more and more colour drained from his face.

John was actually afraid he might pass out any moment, he mentally prepared that it might happen that he needed to manhandle the other man into a chair. He reached for the nearest one and dragged it closer, without looking away.

Had Sherlock taken something, that might cause such a reaction?

The consulting detective still appeared to be frozen mid sentence, not blinking and probably not seeing, his breathing was speeding up now.

That was when John finally realised chances were high that this was not a drug reaction but a flashback. He mentally kicked himself for being so stupid.

He carefully reached for Sherlock's wrist, since he couldn't see the arteries in his neck due to the collar of the dressing gown and the dim light.

"Sherlock?"

Being remembered that touches might have more severe consequences, depending on what Sherlock was reliving, he decided to be careful.

"Sherlock, I'm gonna touch you." He said in a loud an clear voice.

With only two fingertips he felt for Sherlock's pulse, it was beating like mad. Not good.

"Easy, come back to me… Come on… We are safe at home and we're fine."

Suddenly Sherlock's breathing became more stuttering, he showed more and more signs of severe distress.

This was _so_ not good.

"Sherlock, come back to me. Come on. This is the kitchen in Baker Street and you're okay. Don't go there," John tried to stimuli Sherlock's hearing and this way offer him a path out of his memories.

He remembered how he had struggled with the flashbacks after being shot, how they had devastated him. To be thrown back into a battle situation without warning had been one of the most unnerving things he had lived through, worse than the panic attacks or the depression.

When Sherlock swayed dangerously the doctor decided to take action.

John didn't hesitate to touch him since Sherlock had not reacted badly to his minute first touch before, so he slowly moved the chair behind Sherlock and then pushed him gently down to sit in it.

Sherlock stiffly followed the movement, at least until he came to rest at the seat, then he suddenly started to flail.

John had expected chances were high the detective might come out of this in distress and therefore had been attentive and ready to jump either to aid or into cover.

Sherlock started winding and made small noises of pain, obviously not aware of his surrounding.

"Sherlock, come back to me."

The doctor stepped forward, Sherlock was about to fall out of the chair any moment, when he touched him in order to try to prevent Sherlock's fall, the other man became a lot more agitated and panicked.

John was barely able to hold the hyperventilating and struggling figure.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

Then the detective blinked and drew a deep ragged breath.

Awareness only lasted a moment, because the next Sherlock listed forward and then fell forward.

John clumsily managed to slow down his fall, but ended up half crouched and with a heavy dead weight leaning against him.

"Mary?" John yelled. "Mary, I need help!"

It was quite a struggle to hold onto Sherlock and keep him from hitting his head on the kitchen table.

Moments later his future wife came running down the stairs, and entered the kitchen, she had clearly been asleep.

"Huh? What happened?"

"I don't know, possible flashback," John grunted under the weight.

Mary came to his help and braced Sherlock's head and neck while they carefully lowered him to the kitchen floor.

Sherlock was absolutely limb and seemed not to react.

"Get my bag. Turn on all lights. I need light."

She hurried to the wardrobe to get it while John started to examine Sherlock, it turned out he was completely unresponsive.

John opened the dressing gown and cursed when it turned out to be impossible to bare Sherlock's arms.

"Help me get this off," he asked when Mary returned with the large medical bag.

They turned the limb figure and freed him from the dressing gown, which was not an easy task.

John cursed once more, had Sherlock been any other patient John would have by now and cut away the fabrics.

But he found he couldn't, not _that_ dressing grown.

As expected the shirt was even more of a problem, John finally lost patience and reached for the trauma shears, cutting away the first sleeve, he needed to search for needle marks.

"Ta. Take his BP," he ordered and handed her the emergency cutting tool. He then made an improvised pillow from the gown and lifted Sherlock's head onto is. There was a pulse-oximeter and he clipped it to Sherlock's middle finger. Anxiously he started inspecting Sherlock's left arm minutely, fearing to find something, but there was nothing.

"You think he injected something?" Mary asked, she had switched into emergency mode as fast as he had, all traces of sleep gone.

"It was clearly a danger night, and he came back and behaved… odd. Also, he vanished into the bathroom and didn't insist that he was clean. I'm sure he's capable of other ways of using than via needle."

"You searched his room earlier, didn't you?"

"Yes, nothing."

"Eh, John?" Mary had just cut open the other sleeve.

"There is something here."

John leaned over Sherlock to see what Mary had found, expecting to see a tiny needle mark, instead, the insides of Sherlock's elbow pit was covered with a large bulky ball of gauze, held in place by medical tape.

Mary peeled away the bandage and winced, a blue and red bruise was forming around a quite prominent puncture mark.

"Eh, shit, Sherlock!" John ranted, then stepped over to Mary's side.

"John!" Mary seemed a bit scandalised. "You don't really think this was caused because he took drugs?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think!"

"Highly unlikely."

"What?"

"John look at it… That must have been what, a gauche 16 or 17 ?… No one in his right mind would use a needle that size for drugs, far to imprecise."

"Except you are in a hurry and it's the only one that's available."

"From what you have told me, this is not like him. This is clumsy and dowdy, this is not like him. If he once was a user he'd know how to prevent this, he'd also use a site that wouldn't be this easy to spot… and he wouldn't bandage it like this."

"Sorry, you are right…" John inspected the crook. "This was made by another person, but that does not automatically mean he didn't take anything. I mean this whole week screams danger night. He did behave strangely when he arrived and he was away far longer than expected."

"Well…."

"Can you check the bathroom for me, look for pills, vials, syringes… And bring some blankets." John looked at the small monitor, pulse and oxygen saturation were not looking good, but a bit better than before.

He lifted Sherlock's eyelids and checked pupil reaction, then shoved the trousers' legs up to inspect his legs for more puncture wounds.

Nothing. He bared his feet, also okay.

Mary passed him on her way to the bathroom.

"You think it was a flashback," it was a statement, not a question.

"Probably."

"You think we should lift him into his bed?"

"I'm not sure we can manage, besides, we camped at his floor more than one night, I'm sure he'd be okay there again. But right now I'm not even sure we shouldn't bring him to a hospital." John reached for the stethoscope and started listening to Sherlock's body.

After he was finished he gently lifted one of Sherlock's knees, rearranged his arms and rolled him into the recovery position.

Sherlock had been breathing fine, but he wanted to make sure.

"What trigged it?" Mary asked from inside the bathroom.

"I don't know, he was talking about the freezing rain… then he just… went rigid. When he came back he was struggling. We better be prepared he might be not amused when he regains consciousness."

John heard his phone ring and fetched it, who would call at this hour, but before he picked up he knew who it was.

"Mycroft."

"Hallo John… What happened?"

"I assume you are watching us right now?"

"Obviously. Please leave it there. My brother?"

"He had quite an intense flashback and also neither ate nor slept, but we'll take care. He'll be fine."

"No drugs then?"

"Why….?"

"He was seen talking to some low lifes."

"Yes, he was working on the case. No drugs, searched his room earlier."

"Take a blood sample to make sure please."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No, god night." Mycroft hung up.

"His brother?" Mary looked passed the bathroom door.

"Yes. Who else, he's watching us."

"We should search our room."

"No need."

"Why did you lie to him? I mean you were not at all convinced he hasn't taken anything a minute before."

"Still not convinced, but Mycroft does not need to know this."

…

* * *

…

_A/N:  
__This chapter was originally twice this size, but shortly after I started giving it the final touch and adding a few things that were missing my beloved fifteen year old ergonomic keyboard broke, several keys are dead and it took me three hours to only finish the first half by using copy and paste for space characters and other letters. _

_But now I need to stop because it's four in the morning and I have to work. _

_Please review. _

_Constructive criticism welcome._


	17. Chapter 17

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

_._

_A great thank you to every kind soul out there who was so nice to write a review, hearing what you think means a lot to me! Thank you! :)_

**…**

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**…**

**Chapter 17**

**Unknown date, unknown place**

Sherlock hovered somewhere between sleep and half awareness for a long long time.

He surfaced now and then, just enough to be distantly aware of the passing of time.

After what felt like days, the fact that he was in some kind of a drifting state became dimly aware to him. He subconsciously knew he didn't like it. The distant howling of wind was also quite unsettling. Unlike sleep, that was dark red and warm, this felt pale grey green and tasted musty and dangerous.

His mind struggled to raise into a state of higher alertness, but when it finally came the unexpected cold hit him with a brutal intensity that reached deep down into his core.

He felt wounded by it.

Something deep inside was shocked beyond words, though he wasn't sure what it really was, he just felt damaged.

His body seemed to be absent, or at least any perception from it was. The cold was everywhere, the tries to shove it away or ignore it became harder and harder to accomplish.

When suddenly bubbling voices entered the empty space he was unsettled with their surprising presence.

Why were they there, and where was here?

He couldn't even make out the words or the language.

Not only his body struggled to function, his mind was slow, too. He felt misted and out of his normal thought patterns.

He just waited for what might happen, indecisive of what to do or if orientation would return at all.

For long moments or hours that followed he just existed, in an awful, clueless half-awareness, that didn't even know how he was, it was just pure disorientation and emptiness.

A rolling movement in his mind, and suddenly his body returned, the intense sensation made him flinch and then surprisingly painful touch followed.

It was a cold contact, a body wide one, he felt a scratchy fabric on his bare skin.

At first only on the left side of his chest and his upper arm of the same side, then the sensation travelled down his side and along the outside of his thigh.

It was not only itchy, but also made of stinging cold… and somewhat sticky. He was aware he didn't like it, when it, with a rush that expanded over his whole body, made him realise having skin was very inconvenient.

The nuisance intensified, became more and more intensive, finally it caused panic, because it had turned into slight pain... that became intense pain.

Then he remembered.

He was in an old plant.

There had been a campfire in the distance, inside the building.

Someone had been there.

He was in danger.

He needed to open his eyes!

Additional horror gripped him when he felt something moving around him, his surroundings tightened up.

He _had_ a body but it was not listening to any of his commands, not even his stupid eyelids.

There was somebody else there, nearby in fact!

Now, he remembered he had been made to drink, somebody had manhandled his transport. He had been at the mercy of another person, and was still absolutely defenceless, still not able to move.

He had his transport back, but sensation of what was, was all.

First he had almost drowned and then barely managed to find shelter, obviously he had slipped from crisis to crisis. Now, he was literally in the hands of someone else, someone who he had only felt, but not seen yet.

The person was right now directly next to him, and the mere thought of someone this near that was not John gave him horripilation. No one had the right to get into his personal space.

He tried, tried really hard, to speak, to move, to do anything at all, but all that happened was that his breathing grew shallow and fast, and he grunted with the effort.

Finally his eyes opened a small slit and he squinting against dim light that nevertheless felt harsh.

"You're so cold," a hoarse voice told him and ice cold hands were on him, he didn't know where they touched him, just that they did. The urge to scream and wind out of the stranger's grip was overwhelming.

The sleeping bag tightened around him.

"We need to keep you warm, don't shove it away."

What language was that?

He was at the mercy of that person, not even able to turn his head either at his torturer or his saviour, whatever the man was. Panic accompanied him into darkness once more.

.

When he woke the next time he remembered where he was rather quickly, felt the stranger nearby after a few breaths. Still much to near for his liking.

He still could barely move, and then he was shifted a little by the firm arms. He sank back into the warmth of the forced position that might be described as a very loose half sitting embrace, the grip was probably meant to be assuring and keep them both warm, but actually did the opposite of comforting him.

At least he was wrapped tightly in dry fabrics, but it only took moments for more unpleasant feelings to creep into him, time ceased to have meaning again. It just was. He was alive and life was hell.

He could feel the other man's stinky breath and wished he'd black out again, anything, just not experiencing this any longer would be nice.

There was nothing but fear and desperation.

When rough hands returned and bent his head back, helplessness exploded, he trembled intensely and was paralysed by his weakness.

"It's cold outside, you'll freeze to death, I just try to keep you alive."

He must have fought the stranger, then, otherwise he wouldn't say such things.

"Your only chance of survival is to stay warm in here, stay out of the weather. I don't have much, but we can manage. I'll help you. Don't struggle, brother."

He wondered if the stranger was his pursuer who had managed to find him and was now waiting for him to wake up fully before killing him, to heighten the delight about the success to have overpowered him. Moriarty would have been pleased about prolonging the suffering like this.

Right, he needed to get away, Moriarty's man or not, he couldn't do this, hanging around, he needed a bolt whole to gather some strength.

Being incarcerated in his panicking mind, his body not listening to his commands, the weakness to profound, confronted him with unexpected horror.

In disbelief he realised this was how he was, horrified, instead of managing to become accustomed to the situation and make the best of it he was unable to function.

In general he had always thought he was able to endure much, but vulnerability was his breaking point, was that the right word?

Something else started somewhere now, that hadn't been there before, a sensation.

It took quite some time until he found out it must be a fever.

While planning the Fall and the following mission he had tried to embrace the possibility of losing his own life during this operation, as long as it served to safe John and his friends he had been okay with it. He theoretically knew the process of dying might confront a person with the ugliest and most disturbing feelings that existed, why was he struck so hard by this now? Why wasn't he able to handle this better?

He felt a desperate wave of anger wash over him, at his transport and the world in general, and his weakness especially. It was disgusting, and it was getting worse instead of better.

.

He must have drifted off again, because when he resurfaced later he was able to open his eyes. The fire had moved a lot closer to him but was burned down to gleaming pile of red coals in the dark.

He opened his senses wide but wasn't able to spot anyone nearby.

With the aim to sit up he carefully tried to stretch, only to realise that the bedroll was unnaturally tight around him.

He felt caged, is took quite some moments for him to understand that someone had intentionally wrapped it around him and placed many other fabrics on top of him. It had helped, he had indeed warmed up, but in his weakened state it was some work to shove them away. He fought for several minutes to get free, but found he was barely moving on the outside.

Very unsettling, that disorientation.

When he had finally emerged from the sleeping bag he saw someone had messily dressed him, his clothes must have dried. Uneasiness rose when he though of the stranger having invaded his privacy like this, but also a touch of gratefulness that he couldn't remember it and that the man had not run off with his warm trousers and fine cotton long sleeve undershirt. His jacket was missing, though.

He was alone and it was cold without the covers. A second sleeping place was on the other side of the fire, no one nearby.

The urge to hide grew stronger.

A distant voice in his mind, that sounded suspiciously like John, told him in a voiceless whisper that the other man had probably saved his life. Probability he was just a tramp with a big heart, who had shared his supplies with him and therefore deserved gratitude, and that he wasn't out of the woods yet and would do best to stay put.

Sherlock wrapped the sleeping bag around his shoulders and tried to stand up. When his knee made hard contact with the dirty concrete he proceeded with more caution. He almost fell over his shoes, they were still wet.

It seemed to be dawning, must be the early hours of the morning.

He roamed the building for a while but the urge to hide and gather strength alone grew more intense the weaker he felt.

He decided _up_ would be a good choice and dragged himself up the long stairs into the roof level, that was actually more of an inside balcony around the main hall of the building.

Look outside, ascertain the area. But before he reached one of the roof-windows he was confronted with a large whole in the flooring and was forced to get over to the other side of the roof to get to another window. On the way he found several dark alcoves with waste inside and half decayed wooden doors.

The view out of the window only presented high trees that blocked the view, disappointing.

On his way back to the stairs his strength left him and he needed to sit down, he was asleep on the ground before he had time to think about how stupid this was.

.

Some time later something woke him, he blinked and it took several long moments before he remembered where he was and why.

He didn't move, he felt hot and cold at the same time, was trembling and didn't know what had woken him until a strange gurgling sound came from the ground level. Had the stranger returned?

He wasn't in the mood to see anyone, yet. He wanted to be alone, concentrate on making plans how to get out of this forsaken place.

The urge to hide grew stronger.

His eyelids struggled open again, and there was John, down on his haunches in direct line of his sight, clad in his army jacket.

Great, now he was starting to hallucinate. He was just lying there and staring at the figure of his flatmate. He wished he was here, more than anything.

The doctor's jacket was absolutely not the right choice for this weather, Mrs Hudson would complain. He gulped down a wave of nostalgia, thinking of this landlady and the day when John had stormed off because he had behaved socially incorrect.

"You need to let him help," John said, in a tone he usually used to explain those social things any other person was expected to know by himself.

He felt light headed and sick.

"Hey, could you actually listen?" John snapped his fingers in front of his face.

"He touches me… I can't stand it... I need to get away… I don't want him to touch me," Sherlock's voice was only a whisper, he wasn't even sure he had spoken out loud.

"Touch luck. It's not that he's touching you inappropriately, he is taking care of you, that usually involves touch. You left me behind, it's your own fault, I might be here to help you, if you didn't made me stay behind like a dumb sidekick."

Sherlock felt his desperation grow. John sounded angry.

"You won't survive without help. Get over your dammed pride. Suck it up and face it. You need help!"

Sherlock felt something else creep through the large building, he wasn't sure what it was, maybe a smell? But it was so faint he couldn't even tell if it was a smell or the wind. Whatever it was, it felt not nice, something was alarming.

"Sherlock, you are sick…"

Sherlock didn't look at John, why watch something that was generated by his muddled mind?

Probably his fever was getting worse.

Another real noise from downstairs made him flinch, it sounded eerie… since when did he use such words to describe something? Ridiculous!

"What are you doing?" John was now wearing the jacket he had worn at the pool, the one with the bomb vest under it.

Sherlock frowned, his sense of danger shifted up a gear.

Very carefully, and as silent as possible, he crawled back the few metres to the alcoves and wound himself into a pile of soft dirt and waste. He had to bite his lips to prevent coughing.

The imaginary doctor stood outside the niche and frowned but said nothing. He dragged the half rotten door shut and listened.

Only three minutes later a loud crashing sound made him jerk and gasp for air in panic about the sheer loudness and the unfamiliar suddenness of the disturbance of silence.

But the real distress started when he heard someone curse a few seconds later. Someone was there! Someone angry.

Dizziness assailed him and his limbs felt even more leaden than moments before, too heavy to move another centimetre. His heartbeat was so intense it hurt, but simultaneously numbness bound him to the ground, his chest was so tight it was hard work to draw in silent shallow breaths.

Unable to move, his body frozen in terror and fever, he tried to concentrate on staying awake and listen to what was happening.

But only minutes later he lost the fight, the insistent tiredness pulled him under, despite that he was sure that only keeping his eyes open would safe his life.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_This is deliberately as mixed up as Sherlock's perception of it is, to underline the experience, just in case someone was wondering._

_Hope my English was not too mixed up, too, that would of cause be not intentionally, I'm not a native speaker, sorry, doing my best._

_Please review. __Constructive criticism welcome._


	18. Chapter 18

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

**…**

* * *

**…**

**Chapter 18**

**Unknown date, unknown place**

He was padded at the cheek, quite painful, someone was not fond of him, but he couldn't manage to open his eyes, not even move away from the _unfond_ touch.

"Come on, wake up."

More tapping.

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise.

And suddenly the control over his limbs was back, he needed a moment to actually realise they _were_ responding, his hands flailed through the air, then one made contact with a painful solid edge and the other was caught by something warm.

Only moments after he had rediscovered freedom of action it was taken away again… but now he was immobilised by foreign hands instead of his own weakness.

Had his pursuer finally found him?

He felt the weariness that was swapping over from his body into his mind, infected him with the idea to just give up, just give in, let them kill him, it would mean the end of all this suffering, so easy, get it all over with.

Several hands pressed his arms into a hard ground, and even more hands grabbed his face

"Come on, don't do this."

The voice was familiar but... he struggled to get free and the sound level around him rose significantly.

Then hands grabbed his head, holding his face. He felt hot palms at his jaws and fingers behind his ears and at his cheeks.

"Sherlock! Look at me!"

John!

His voice was loud and very firm.

John was there… since when could hallucinations touch him? But if he hallucinated a person he'd probably also hallucinate their touch.

He finally forced his eyes open and the doctor's face was hovering above. A red aura surrounded him and he seemed worried, but overall seemed fine and alive, and currently not wearing the jacket with the bomb inside. In fact he was not wearing any jacket, just that odd thin cardigan.

With a gasp he found he was in a semi-dark 221b kitchen, which disoriented him even more. Was he now even hallucinating his surroundings?

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you with me?"

Sherlock just stared up at the imaginary doctor, frozen in not-understanding.

Then his transport decided once more it was all too exhausting. His head sank back against the floor and when he let his arms go slack the grip around them lessened slightly.

"Look at me."

He met John's gaze and the other man had an odd expression on his face, he was sorry, definitely, that aspect he was fully able to recognise, but the other one…

"You're with me? You were dreaming or reliving a memory, can you remember what it was?"

What was he talking about?

Then he saw someone else… they were not alone.

He blinked.

Mary…

The fact that _this_ was therefore reality hit him like a punch in the face, he fought for air once more when his universe shifted into place with an painful mental iron jolt.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" A thumb moved over his cheek, prompting him to pay attention.

Sherlock nodded, he was safe… and felt he had quite a headache.

His jaw was clenched with the intensity of what he had just lived through.

Keeping his horror in check was difficult.

"You need to be honest with me, Sherlock, did you take something?"

He continued to concentrate on breathing, it was hard.

It took a moment until the meaning of the question sank in, before Sherlock managed to remember what exactly had happened today and why he was on his kitchen floor.

Today was so unbelievably long ago.

But John was not that patient.

The pressure on his skull intensified and Sherlock wondered why John was still clinging to his head, he made a feeble attempt to free himself from the grip, but was not released, as he had expected.

"Come on, you need to stay with me. What drug did you take, Sherlock? Answer me, for god's sake."

"John, hey, calm down," Mary was the one holding one of his wrists and the other elbow.

"Nothing, let me go," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and rough.

He suddenly realised it was anger John broadcasted, although his touch was not angry, just immobilising. And he himself felt some resentment now too, for being doubted, but only for a very brief moment, until he remembered he had indeed bought drugs and the emotion was replaced by guilt.

"Sherlock, what did you take? Come one, be honest with me."

"Nothing. I need… let me go. I feel sick," he realised he did only after he had said it, being held down woke new terror and memories.

"Then where's that coming from?" John let finally go of his face and not too gently took Sherlock's left arm out of his fiancé's grip and moved his elbow pit into view.

Sherlock winced, Molly was more skilled with corpses than with living tissue.

"Blood donation," he managed.

"Oh, you made someone else do it after I refused?" Mary chimed in a tone that, according to Sherlock's point of view, was not fitting the situation at all.

"What?" John spit, staring at his future wife for a change now.

"Calm down, John. He said he needed half a litre of blood for an experiment and asked me to take it, I said it was to much in his state and only took a few millilitre. He must have asked someone else then." Mary briefly explained what had happened.

"Why should I believe that? He could have asked to…."

"Ask Molly… 's in the fridge," Sherlock murmured and rolled onto his side. The dim light was getting on his nerves. John allowed the movement but kept a hand on his shoulder held him in place. It was odd, this contact. For a brief moment it felt safe, protected, held together before it returned to be a nuisance and made him fight against his instinct to blindly lash out.

"He put something in the fridge earlier, check it out," John asked Mary and she stood up.

Sherlock tried to sit up, but instead of allowing it John tightened his grip. He only now realised his chest was bare and the touch of John's hand produced a new wave of hot panic rush over him.

"Stay put. Settle down."

"John, please, let me get up."

John had no trouble restraining his weak movements. This was John, he tried to remind himself, it was okay to be touched by John. He was allowed to, but his logic failed to convince the aspect that was firing waves of trepidation into his consciousness.

"Easy. You're safe… Do you understand me? You can't get up already, you just collapsed and I need to know you are clean."

"Let me go…" Sherlock pleaded becoming more and more desperate, though some different argumentative voice told him that the more agitated he appeared the smaller the chances his former flatmate would let go.

"Tell me where you've just been, what did you dream about?" John urged him, pulling a blanket over his torso. It felt bad. His skin didn't like it.

"Darling, may I remind you how eager _you_ are talking about flashbacks right after you resurfaced? You might want to give him some space." Mary was rummaging in the fridge now.

But Sherlock needed to figure this out for himself, too, what had happened after he had hidden in the roof niche?

He needed to go back there and see, because his mind didn't seem eager to recall the events without it. It was a blank spot in his memories. Better do it now while the situation was… fresh.

He let his eyes fall shut again and tried to blend out reality, John's careful but firm immobilisation actually helped to kick him right back into the past. The feeling of being held down was unsettling and his freezing did the rest to bring back the sensations that were hiding behind a brittle barrier in a not to far away corner of his mind. He felt starting to shake with reaction once more.

He gasped when the surrounding of the ruinous building were called back almost immediately, with much more intensity than he had expected.

He was not ready to tell John how dreadful the fact of being literally in the hands and at the mercy of a stranger had been, or even talk about _anything_ that had to do with his soul while Mary was listening.

He was limp, boneless inside a heap of rubble, he saw the stairs in the distance, those that led down to the ground level of the plant. He blinked to clear his distorted vision.

Carefully he wound out of his tight and dirty bolthole, it took quite some time. Seeing his footprints and the stirred dust on the ground he groaned inwardly. Not the brightest idea to leave hints like that before hiding, but he had a high fever… stupid nevertheless.

"Shit, he's slipping back into… Dammit, Sherlock, don't do this, stay with me," a yelling voice whispered in the distance.

But Sherlock ignored him, turned down his perception of hearing reality as far as he dared, he needed to know what had happened without disturbance.

Now, he was aware that he was wandering in a memory. If he wanted to, he could just open his eyes and see John and Mary, could turn up his hearing and listen to them. This was like using a normal memory, just a lot more intense… and not knowing the output, which was odd. But less unsettling, safe… well, a bit at last, like having an anchor to a safe haven.

It had been horrible to feel the weakness weighting down his limbs, he remembered that he was aware that he needed to get somewhere safe to gather some strength, had he done that?

He felt the fever had risen and that the homeless man might be his last chance to survive, he should go downstairs and talk to him. He was like an observer in his own body, but also had the impression administer things he had decided just now.

"Hello?" he called hoarsely, through lips that felt thick and stiff, but his voice was almost not present, he didn't try again.

Carefully, one step at a time, he descended down the rotting stairs on shaky legs, some difficult smell was gaining intensity.

It took quite some time to make his way down. But what he saw when he neared the last steps from the bottom made him frown, some had collapsed, quite messy, this had not been there when he had made his way up. Someone must have stepped onto it and then it had given way, taken the next and the one after it with him.

Had the homeless man searched for him and destroyed it thereby? Was that the noise he had heard, had the man fallen?

There had been cursing.

Had he lost so much weight that he had been able to step on that fragile wood without damaging it?

Sherlock avoided the broken wood by stepping on the metal base of the banister and headed slowly back to the fireplace.

Uh, the smell was getting worse.

A figure lay on the ground by the fire and some daft aspect of Sherlock was glad he wasn't all alone.

He cleared his throat to make himself heard and not startle the man but there was no reaction, so he tried to speak.

"Hello?"

No reaction. Had he been hurt in the fall?

The man was wearing Sherlock's high tech slender winter jacket and his woollen hat. Only fair, he had allowed Sherlock to use his bedroll.

When he finally rounded the stranger an ominous feeling had started in the area of his stomach.

He tipped the lifeless figure at the shoulder when the smell hit him full force.

His stomach turned and he knew what he'd find before he could see it.

Blood.

He stepped around the heap of person.

A large pool of it on the ground under and around the man.

When he turned him and his head rolled back it revealed a brutally cut throat, very deep and messy.

The sight of the large wound burned into his memory and he suddenly felt his blood pressure fall significantly, nausea accompanied the uncomfortable sensation, though it all was very distant, like behind a veil.

He fell to his knees, gasping in horror and distress. Then, like an echo the nausea returned and he threw up bile into the dirt.

But what stunned him the most was his body's reaction. He had seen cut throats before, had seen beheaded copses… handled heads who's body's were missing without any problems, things that were considered far worse than this. Why was _this _giving him so much distress?

He had recoiled a few steps but was still on all fours, then he ducked away, more in reflex than with a decision, crouched down behind some rubble. Was the killer still here? Adrenaline kicked in viciously.

"Sherlock!"

He is slapped again and them remembered he could just get out of his mind! Use the easy way out, he had almost forgotten. Did he want to get out?

But the decision was made without his consent and he resurfaces violently, it feels like cutting off in mid-scream.

His eyes are wide open for a second, fighting his way back into reality.

"Don't try to do anything, just breathe," John advised, holding onto his upper arms once more, he is in a half sitting, curled up position.

His face crumples in desperation and pain, as his body sags backwards, like all strings cut, all fight leaves him, relief making him weak.

Someone catches him. John.

He's fighting for control over himself.

Someone is speaking in an agitated voice.

He can't answer, feeling suddenly even more drained.

Dimly aware he sensed he was still on the blanket, on the ground, in the kitchen.

Someone touches his neck, holds his shoulders. He fights the hands and rolls onto his side, trying to battle the touches away.

Why couldn't they leave him alone?

The memories of how he had fought to return to John, and how he had clung to life, and the thought that he needed to survive to get back to London, they seemed to taunt him now. He wished he had died back then and not lived through this.

The homeless man had been slain by the man he had barely managed to escape from by jumping into the river. He must have followed him and found their camp. Had he slain his saviour because he thought it was him, or because he was frustrated about not finding him?

Probably the broken step had saved his life, assured Moriarty's man, who was quite a bulldog he remembered now clearly, that he was not up there because the steps wouldn't have carried him anyway.

Luck, dumb luck, had saved him. It was a concept he had severe difficulties to grasp, it left him aghast, so… uncontrollable.

Being out of control was the most horrible thing that existed.

He should be dead.

Someone was still taking hold of him and it was getting far too much.

He tried to roll to his stomach to get better leverage. He needed to get up and away.

They needed to leave his presence, he needed to be alone. But the most urgent: he didn't want to be seen by Mary, he felt his privacy invaded by her presence for the first time.

Alone protected him. The hopes he had had, when he planned his faked death, and what he had aimed for that night when he had said those words to John also mocked him, and that was when something boiled over somewhere in a deep cavern of his mind.

He felt once more paralysed, now by the intensity of his emotions.

His face was buried in the messed up blanket and he felt his hands were gripping the soft fabric desperately, as if they were operating on their own.

"Stop it," he moaned.

He couldn't even move when a touch returned to his shoulder, couldn't hear what was said.

He felt something hot and wet on his temple.

Enough of being seen in his anguish and of being pitied.

Someone tried to roll him back into a supine position and at first his body followed, until the eruption that boiled over in another orange black wave widened from his mind to his body.

He violently flinched away from the physical contact and rolled over, hid his face and managed to get on his hands and knees, the adrenaline from moments before still in his system.

"Shit, sorry…?"

"No!… Go away!" he realised he was screaming, with all his frustrations and anger at the world, all the misery present in his voice.

If he was going to have a meltdown, which had probably already started, if his shaky hands were any indication, so he knew it was a distinct possibility, he'd rather endure it alone, away from anybody's sympathetic looks. His senses grew more and more agitated and were heading into an overload. He clenched his teeth.

"It's okay, I'm sorry… Calm down."

"NO! GO away!"

"Sherlock, it's totally normal to feel…"

"I don't want to feel any longer, go away!"

John didn't move, Mary was nowhere to be seen.

He managed to stagger to his feet and with the aid of the wall stumbled into his room.

"Stay were you are!" he yelled, when he heard movement behind him.

"Okay, just calm down… It's all okay, whatever you need," John said, not moving, but probably staring at his back.

Sherlock was glad it was dark because he felt his face was wet with more desperation and disgust about… everything.

He kicked the door shut and then locked it.

The heap of blankets on the floor another reminder of his weaknesses.

He headed for the bed, but the adrenaline that had sustained his escape drained away abruptly, leaving him dizzy.

Before he was able to reach the bed his knees gave way and he sagged to the floor in front of it, merely successful slowing down the fall by holding onto the mattress.

Silently he allowed the dam to give way and a storm of unknown hideous emotions washed over him, he surrendered, ignoring them, not knowing or understanding what was happening.

He retreated into a black tight safe room in his mind palace, he had sometimes used as a child. It was safe because no grown up could physically fit through the passages that led there.

He concentrated to put his mind to a meditation state that was close to sleep, but where he remained in control, and let his body deal with the storm. If it wanted to throw a tantrum it was on his own, he would not reward such allures with his presence.

Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, another decision his body made without him.

.

Hours later when he resurfaced again, mouth parched and mind dizzy. He climbed into his bed, huddled into a large pile of warm blankets and thought about the memories he had found. Swallowing was a struggle and he had an immense headache. Ignore transport.

Sherlock remembered what he had forgotten, suppressed memories, he had at one point realised he was missing the memory of how he had escaped, but had no time to care about it back then. He had just assumed he had deleted them.

But now they were there, he could analyse them, maybe that would make them less awful.

After he had made sure he was alone with the tramp's dead body Sherlock sorted through the man's meagre belongings and his own few water-damaged goods that were spilled around the cold campfire. He packed some things into the man's old army backpack and then waited until noon before he headed out, if someone was waiting for him, he'd think he'd leave in the dark of the night.

He walked for two days, seeing no one. He had been slow because of his condition and the fact that he had been overly careful. Moved as silent as possible, walked on socks through the under wood, did not sleep.

Finally he reached a small port and hid aboard an old sailboat, on which he spent the night.

The next evening he took a taxi to the next bigger town with the last few Russian rouble he had, from there he had called Mycroft, barely able to speak. The memories were very misty, like having done it all under the influence of drugs… or in a dream.

His brother had provided transport to a safer location, a hotel room, medical supplies and a new mobile phone. Sherlock was forced to pause for two weeks to recuperate and gather some strength, and to battle the beginning pneumonia before it would get dangerous. He didn't left the hotel even once.

Now, in hindsight he understood he owed the homeless man quite a lot, his life… and his life again a few days later. He had no idea how long the man had taken care of him, and what his name was.

Probably his body was still rotting in that hall. It made some aspect of him anxious and another one swabbed him with sudden… was it grief? … or guilt? Probably both. When were those sentiments about to leave him alone?

He just wanted rest and peace.

Where had the backpack gone? Had there been anything in there that could be used to identify the man?

It took some time but finally he managed to slip back into sleep.

….

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….

_A/B:_

_Thank you for reading :)_

_Please review._


	19. Chapter 19

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

**…**

* * *

**…**

**Chapter 19**

**Sunday, early hours of the morning.**

"What did just happen?" Mary asked, running back down from upstairs with the things John had requested. She had heard Sherlock scream and hurried downstairs again.

John was sitting on the ground, leaned against the counter, a crumpled blanket next to him, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't know, you saw him slip back into the memory, but it seemed a bit more superficial than the times before… When you went upstairs to search the grain cushion… it didn't last long, but he started to heave, I tried to get his mind out." John rubbed his eyes with his right hand. "He resurfaced and curled up, almost violently, then suddenly went limb like a rag doll, but… then he started to tense up again, at first I feared he was having a fit or something, he clung to the blanket as if it was a lifeline. Then… he managed to get up and escaped into his room, yelling at me not to follow."

"In a volume even the inhabitants of three houses down must have heard."

John stood up and reached for his phone, Mary noticed he looked pale and tired. The doctor went to the living room and switched on the telly.

John obviously didn't want Sherlock to overhear the call. Mary followed him.

The line was picked up at the other end.

"Mycroft? Sorry to disturb you."

"I haven't slept."

"You watched?" John felt bad with being surveilled like this, but for now this was better than the dangers.

"Eh…. Yes."

"Is he okay in there?"

"I don't know, he's… on the floor, in front of his bed. Restless. Why don't you force open the door? He should be given some strong anti-anxiety medication for this, maybe it would be better if you…"

"You of all people should know he'll not work with any form of force," John interrupted. "We need to wait for him to realise he needs help, that's the only way he'll accept it."

"Good luck with that."

"I see the problem. The thing is he was already halfway there a week ago, but something caused a retreat. He might need a kick in the ass now and then, but no force on any aspect of this, he needs to understand it in _his_ way and we need to listen to what he really needs."

"I advise you get in there and give him something against this kind of attacks."

"He asked me to promise him not to give it to him again, last time it seemed to have done the opposite, it hightened his panic and made him restless. Since he asked me not to use it again, and I won't. And I won't go in there for now, I think he needs some space. This is my medical opinion. He probably experiences so many difficulties because in his past he was forced to endure things he did know wouldn't work with him, let's not make that mistake again. He… he… found some lost memories, some that seem to have been very disturbing. I won't jeopardise his trust any more than I need to."

"So why are you calling me? I think we are nearing the end of the line and need to consider more drastic actions. This might get out of hand fast."

"I want a life feed from the surveillance camera in his room."

"Then just… oh, I realise, you're not _able_ to tap into it on your own, you need instructions how to do it."

"If that's how to make me able to watch him, then 'yes'," John dismissed the insult.

"I'll make sure you get them."

"Good. Thank you."

"What makes you think he'll not destroy the camera as soon as he can stand?" Mycroft wanted to know.

"I already wonder why any of those are still here."

"He wants to protect you." Mycroft explained in a matter of fact tone.

"Why does he thinks I'm still in danger?"

"Bonfire."

"Oh… Right," John failed to understand it, why was he himself in danger in Sherlock's room?

"What happened to his arm, the bruise?"  
"He donated blood, it's in the fridge. I don't know what for yet."

"I want a sample to have it tested, please prepare one. Give it to Anthea."

Mycroft hung up before John had the chance to say anything else.

John of course planned to get in there sooner or later, but to plan it carefully he needed to see inside.

.

Half an hour later Anthea brought a tablet that showed the life feed constantly and took the blood sample John had taken from the transfusion bag.

At around four in the morning John went in, it was an hour after Sherlock had finally stilled and seemed to be asleep on the floor. The doctor opened the door with a spare key and entered carefully.

He tried to check Sherlock out very careful in order not to wake him. But the other man was dead to the world, soaked in sweat and seemed physically relatively okay. His body was still shivering and John brought a hot water bottle and heated the grain cushion once more. Sherlock's sleep was so deep he didn't react at all when John checked him over thoroughly a bit later.

Two hours later he found Sherlock was suffering from a low fever and monitored it carefully, but he assumed it was caused by the stress. Sherlock had reacted with a raised body temperature to certain topics or mental anguish before, his body was odd sometimes. Finally he even renewed the bandage on his toes.

John checked on him every hour and when the fever sank turned up the heating.

In the late morning John saw movement on the small screen of the tablet and watched how Sherlock briefly woke and climbed into his bed.

It took some time, but finally the detective slipped back into sleep.

John handed the tablet over to Mary, who was insisting he slept a bit himself and went to bed.

.

When John woke up it was the middle of the afternoon. He groaned when he saw the time.

Mary was working at her laptop in the living room and handed over the tablet as soon as he entered.

"Everything quiet. How are you?"

He just grunted in reply and stared at the screen. Sherlock seemed still sound asleep.

"Have you been in there?"

"Twice, checked his temp, no fever, asleep, though tense," she reported efficiently.

"Okay. I'm gonna check on him and then have a shower."

John did. Sherlock was still sleeping and when he touched his brow moved a bit but did not wake.

John showered, when he was drying himself off he heard his phone received a text, he searched through the heap of clothes for his phone and opened the message immediately.

'Blood work is clean. There are news on the case. I will arrive at 1815. Make sure he's awake.'

John sighed aloud with relief about the drug test, then wondered briefly if the concept of weekends existed in Mycroft's view of the world, probably as much as it did in Sherlock's.

But then he realised the older Holmes just cared in his own way, hurrying to get the information as fast as he could to help.

He dressed in fresh clothes and had a tea with Mary before entering Sherlock's room again. Worry about how Sherlock would react as soon as he woke, had plagued him all night, he apprehended more rejection or anger on Sherlock's side.

In the semi-dark he carefully sat down on the side of Sherlock's bed and leaned closer to check the other man's temperature once more.

When he reached out with his hand he suddenly realised Sherlock's eyes were half open and he was looking at him.

"Hey," he greeted softly.

Sherlock remained silent and John didn't dare to touch him, he also tense up, afraid off another confrontation.

"I'm gonna switch on the light," he warned and moments later the room was lit with the soothing yellow light of the bedlamp.

Sherlock grunted a soft protest and blinked, but to John's great relief he didn't tense up or moved.

"Headache?"

Sherlock minutely nodded, otherwise didn't move or anything. He was just passive and watching.

"Your brother texted me. There are news about the case he wants to give us. He'll be here in two hours."

Sherlock said nothing, just stared into the distance.

When the silence was about to turn awkward because John had no clues why this was like it was Sherlock finally draw a deeper breath and slowly opened his mouth.

"Thank you," he muttered in a very low and raw voice.

"For what?"

"Not storming in after me and drugging me into next week. I'm sure my brother tried to make you take that course of action."

Sherlock was so calm and motionless it was almost spooky.

"Oh… Yes," was all John could say to that. He didn't dare to ask how the detective was feeling, fearing it could cause agitation or whatever it was that was bugging Sherlock.

"You're dehydrated. Kettle's just boiled," he didn't even dare to ask if Sherlock wanted tea, no questions for now. He also didn't move, just waited for a reaction.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, get it over with."

"What?" John frowned.

"You want to check me out, and you want to ask," Sherlock still hadn't moved, but his eyes were now closed again.

"Er, yes, but I figured… I… don't want to make you feel… pushed… or anything," John explained but then carefully und slowly wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, it was not as cold as during the night and the pulse seemed fine. The touch only lasted about five seconds and Sherlock didn't react at all, not even the slightest flinch.

"I want tea," Sherlock started to move for the first time, very slowly, he shoved away the duvet and rolled over to his side, then pushed himself upward to sit at the other side of the bed.

John stood up and watched his former flatmate's painstaking movements. They both sat on the opposite edges of the bed for long seconds before Sherlock gathered the strength to try to push himself up, John bit his lips in sympathy.

His former flatmate was not looking good at all and must really feel like shit after this night, even though he was rested now he was probably hurting all over. When he finally stood up John was at his side, not touching him, but showing presence and was ready to steady him if necessary. Sherlock didn't shove him away or commented, he just stoically and with an aura of enourmous exhaustion moved over to a chair, picked up a dressing gown and slipped into it, then shuffled into the kitchen.

John followed him.

When Sherlock started to make himself some tea and glanced around the kitchen, which showed no signs of the events of last night, Mary had made sure of that, John decided eyeing him this obviously was a bad idea. He went to get some paracetamol, placed them at the table and left him to do whatever he wanted to. Sherlock had shown him the same courtesy in the past, when he had been plagued by nightmares about Afghanistan that were presumably impossible to overhear. He was uptight to know about what had happened but saw the need to let things normalise a bit. In John's experience that was the best way to make Sherlock talk, normalcy. Making a fuss or hovering would cause more reticence, Mary agreed with him and they did their best to act relaxed and busy.

Sherlock showered and send someone a text before he drank another tea. Finally he took some pain medication shortly. He neither spoke nor did his movements sped up significantly before his brother arrived, and John feared this was just the beginning of more complications.

…

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…

_A/N:_

_If you like my work, please review._


	20. Chapter 20

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thank you, everyone who took their time and gave me feedback, you're great!_

_._

_Sorry, I was a bit in a dark mood and tried to compensate with a slight humour and it might have become a bit too fluffy, hope I didn't overcompensate._

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**Chapter 20**

**Sunday evening**

Mycroft's scrutinizing gaze went up and down his younger brother, who moments before had not even bothered to greet him.

"Tea?" John offered.

"Yes." Mycroft answered simply.

"What did you find out?" Sherlock asked, his voice was still hoarse.

Mycroft took his time to sit down in John's armchair, opposite the consulting detective, while John served the tea in the fine china.

The doctor then took a chair from the dinner table and sat down with them.

Sherlock sat with his fingertips pressed against each other, fingers spread wide, his index fingers tapping against each other in a fast rhythm, he was obviously impatient.

"I was able to find out from where the forum post was made… Thank you, John," he took the cup from the other man with both hands. "The address is irrelevant, since the person who lived there has moved repeatedly during the past years. It is in an area of military homes, adjacent to a base, it's mostly used by higher ranking officers and their families. We couldn't determine who exactly posted the message, but it is unlikely the father of the family, a sergeant back then, did it, because it is common knowledge for someone working on a base on a daily basis. The man is fifty eight now."

"Children?" John asked.

"And that's where it becomes a bit diffuse… He had a wife, she died twelve years after having their first child. The interesting thing is: one file says the man had three children, two boys and a girl, where all the others say he had two, a boy and a girl. It was pure luck that the agent I assigned to the task found this little detail."

"Your minions are mostly idiots," Sherlock grouched.

"Well, it is also possible, that a visitor used the computer. They had an exchange student staying over for a year and… well, the family seemed to have a good reputation, though I have to admit we had to be very careful with our questions not to cause an political incident. The father has become quite active in politics, not a public person yet, but on the way to become one. Therefore we need to do this _very_ discrete. The interesting thing is, why did the person who wrote the post refrain from asking the person that was obviously more than competent to answer the question."

"Obvious, bad relationship, missing trust," Sherlock pointed out.

"Probably, or he wasn't just not home often enough," Mycroft said in a flat voice.

"The man has a spotless personal file and a high rank. I will dug deeper during the week, carefully, because he is also the friend of some VIPs in the government. Some we cannot afford to disgruntle. I was not able to spot down his offsprings, which is also odd, there were some other irregularities."

"Name?" Sherlock asked stiffly.

"Marc Daniel Alexander."

"Oh," Sherlock made, obviously knowing the name.

"Which part of that is his last name?" John asked a bit puzzled, obvious he had never heard of him.

"Alexander," Mycroft and Sherlock answered simultaneously. John grinned.

"The man would be in the right age for the suspect who has dumped the first victim," Sherlock explained.

"Somehow I can't think why a man of his reputation would condescend into something like this?" John wondered.

"Maybe _because_ of his reputation," Sherlock theorised.

"I met him on several occasions and he's more the commanding type, not the one doing the work himself," Mycroft explained.

"Comes with the job," John joked, trying to ease the tension in the room a bit, but it was no use. Sherlock and Mycroft communication style was quite stiff and neither of them even tried to fake a smile.

"Anything else?"

"That's all for now."

"You bothered to come over for _this_?"

"…I also wanted to see how you are," Mycroft admitted, speaking in a quieter voice now.

"I am fine."

"I'd like you to take John's offer for a prescription of ADs," Mycroft dropped the bomb.

"No! I told you before I absolutely don't plan to take anything that messes up my brain."

John flinched about Sherlock's tone and feared the man would retreat into his room any moment. But the two brothers only stared at each other, neither one blinking.

Mycroft did the sensible thing and stood up a few moments later.

"Thank you for the tea, Dr Watson," he stated formally and nodded into John's direction. "I will call as soon as I find out anything else."

"I wished you'd get your senses back and accept help with this," he addressed Sherlock without looking at him.

"Don't pretend you care, Mycroft, it doesn't suit you."

"Be assured I hate it as much as you do," Mycroft answered.

John raised his eyebrows, not sure what he meant by that. But Sherlock huffed, obviously understanding exactly what he was saying.

"Good evening," and Mycroft was out of the door.

.

Sherlock spend the rest of the evening experimenting on antidotes, while Mary made curry for dinner.

What was surprising to the doctor was how much the other man drank, he must be really dehydrated. Sherlock made a whole pot of tea and drank it all alone.

The couple successfully talked Sherlock into eating. He ate almost half the plate.

John and Mary had decided not to confront him today about last night, they all needed some time to let this sink in.

Although John was deeply interested in knowing what Sherlock had remembered, he knew from his own PTSD therapy that it was a bad idea to urge the other man to talk about it when he wasn't ready. Of course Sherlock managed to behave like his former normal self today, even better than since his return. The doctor assumed it was one more sign of how much defeated he was by last nights events.

When they were half through the meal Sherlock stood up and headed to his room.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked a bit surprised, sipping her red wine.

"Getting… something," Sherlock mumbled.

When he hadn't come back three minutes later and nothing could be heard John went to make sure he was okay.

He found the detective sleeping on his stomach on top of the covers, exhaustion even in sleep clearly visible in his face. As silent as he could he closed the door, so they wouldn't disturb him, then he headed into the living room fetching the tablet PC from the rubble in the bookshelf where he had hidden it before.

"Is he okay?"

"Looks like it. Asleep."

"Digestion is a lot of work, especially when the cook uses things that make someone tired deliberately."

"What?"

"I cooked rice, used honey… all ingredients that should result in serotonin production and aid sleep."

"Oh, right. Natural sleep aid, then?"

"I thought we could all use it after last night. Especially when he refuses meds."

John grinned and switched on the tablet, "Are you reading up on natural remedies?"

"No, I knew them before, not in depth though. It's more like some sort of comfort food."

"The words comfort and food don't go together with Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure he wouldn't even understand the concept," John rolled his eyes and added some more curry to the small portion of remaining rice on his plate.

"To be honest, the thought that I don't know how I am supposed to comfort him, makes me a bit nervous these days. There actually is nothing I can think of how to comfort him, not really, not when he is really upset like now. I mean giving him work usually works, but…"

"Oh, come on, you have been comforting him constantly for last two weeks, and it's fine, he allows you to."

"Yeah, he did in the beginning, but not any longer, this is not… I don't know…"

"Have you considered just giving him a hug and telling him you're glad he's back?"

"He'd probably kick me out of the flat for that kind of stunt. He doesn't like to be touched."

"I know, but maybe he'll recognise it as what is usually means, instead of refusing it. A hug is a pretty direct gesture, you can barely say that with words."

"I know, but… Sherlock is not the person you should hug… I have never hugged him."

"Really?… Oh."

"But… Greg told me he did."

"And?"

"Nothing, he didn't try to bite his head off for that."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's a good sign."

"I'm not sure… The idea feels… wrong…"

They ate in silence for a few moments until Mary held out her hand.

"Give me your phone."

"What for?" John was suspicious when he saw her archly smile.

"I want to text Mycroft and ask him what comfort food Sherlock had as a child."

"No!"

"Why not? It's fun to imagine his face when he reads the text. Besides, you have nothing to fear, he'll know it was me."

John giggled, then realised she was trying to help his mood, too. He fetched his phone and handed it over.

She typed a message and after she had hit the 'send' button she put it on the table between them.

But instead of receiving a text the phone rang moments later.

Mary picked up and headed into the living room. John followed.

"Wait, I'll put you on speaker."

"Where's the stuff our mother send?" Mycroft's voice sounded out of the speaker.

"What?" John didn't understand.

"The food, that my mother send was actually Sherlock-comfort food."

"Really?" Mary grinned widely.

"Give him some of that cacao beans."

"What is it? Normal cacao?" Mary asked.

"What's so special about it?" John wanted to know the same moment.

"How to prepare it. But about Sherlock and food I need to explain something else first… He prefers certain.. textures. As a child he wanted to eat the same things repeatedly, and they must have been prepared with no variation. The less things are mixed, the higher the chances he likes them… What I mean is _keep it separate_."

"Oh," Mary made.

"Yeah, that means no such things as stews. I had a hard time figuring that out," John informed. "Asian food is the only exception, maybe because the things are not cooked forever, but that is my theory."

"Our mother had a hard time, too. It became a real problem when he refused to eat food at school, which was then reported to the nurse and that led to a doctor's appointment. The man misdiagnosed him with anorexia because he refused to eat things with a certain texture or taste. When asked Sherlock also reported he was able to taste and smell the dishwashing detergent on the cutlery and glasses and it made him nauseous. The doctor refused to believe him, insinuated he was making this up. He was refusing to eat, so he was anorexic, and since he was a doctor, he was never wrong. Excuse my sarcasm, John, but back then repeatedly doctors presented this attitude. Things have changed for the better in the last years, doctors have started to listen more than back then. Luckily, our mother did not share the doctor's opinion and encouraged Sherlock to tell her what was bugging him about school food. Then spoiled him with break time snacks and sandwiches from home. She managed quite well, as long as he was a child, but it went downhill after he moved out. Got better after you moved in though, John."

"Ta," John just muttered.

"Our mother made me give the package to him, but I guess he'll not use the items on his own. So I have to explain it to you. Listen, or better write it down... Do you know where it is?"

John fetched pen and paper.

"Under the sink, let me get it," Mary said, heading back into the kitchen.

"Our mother was quite fond of you, John, and told me to explain to you how to use the things she sent… I don't understand why she doesn't call you directly… Well, so here _I_ am explaining receipts to you…"

John smiled about the desperate and unnerved tone the older Holmes displayed. In some things they were so much alike. Sherlock would do it in a similar way.

"There's pure de-oiled cocoa powder, organic and without any additives," Mycroft started.

"Yap," Mary said, rummaging in the large bag and producing an expensive looking box.

"You're supposed to make a drink from it, but you need to do it absolutely the way I tell you to. So, put two heaping teaspoons of the powder into a normal cup, add three table spoons of boiling water and mix it into a thick paste, takes a few moments, don't wonder. Then slowly fill up the mug with low fat milk and heat it up in the microwave, or pre-heat the milk on the stove, the serving temperature should be about 65 degrees in the end. Don't try it, it's disgusting, bitter, intense, and dark. Do under no circumstances add anything else or sugar."

"Whoa, that sounds _not_ really good," Mary grimaced.

"Well, he's strange with his eating habits, but he actually likes this. There's more, get some fresh ginger, peel it, blend it with a immersion blender or something, put three large tablespoons into a cup, brew with boiling water or cook for at least ten minutes, remove the dregs, add a tablespoon of brown sugar. Don't try it either, except you really like hot and sweet at once. I actually sometimes like that. If it's ridiculously hot and sweet you did it right. Temperature: 70 degrees."

"God, I'd never have thought he'd eat something like that, it's quite intense."

"Well, we were never sure if this was about hurting himself or comforting, whatever it does, it calms him."

"How did she figure _that_ out?"

"Actually… with the cacao, Sherlock was about six, she prepared a mixture for making chocolate pudding. But before she had time to add starch or stir the concentrate into the boiling milk Sherlock had drunk it and asked for more. When she was finished scolding him and tried the mixture herself she realised she had forgotten the sugar. He later asked for it on several occasions, she figured out it was in moments of stress. When she wanted to know why he wanted it, he just said his body is asking for it, never actually said if he liked it or not. But since it was usually a fight to get any calories into him my mother was glad of every bit, especially when he asked for it."

"And with the ginger… he made my chef do that for him on several occasions after we came back from Serbia, said something about a temple or Asia or something, not sure, wasn't there."

"Okay…"John giggled. "Never thought we'd do comfort food for him… Glad you told me. Is there more?"

"Getting the temperature right is in both things essential. There is more, but these are the most important ones. But please call our mother if it isn't urgent, _please_. I'll text you the number," Mycroft sounded almost afraid to be used as a messenger like this in the future.

"Okay. We will. Thank you Mycroft," Mary smiled.

"Thanks, good night," John added.

They hung up and Mary opened the cacao and smelled it.

"Oh, this is nice."

"I'm not sure how to confront him with that. He'll know we try to comfort him. Might get difficult, we can't waste this, we need to be sensible and careful offering it to him. The fact that he put it under the sink says he doesn't want to see it or be reminded it exists."

They hid the content of the package to prevent it from being thrown away and ate some dessert, then went to bed early.

Sherlock was still sound asleep when they checked on him.

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_A/N:_

_Happy Easter to everyone!… Or just happy holidays for those who don't believe in egg-laying bunnies. :)_

_Constructive criticism and reviews very welcome._


	21. Chapter 21

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 21 **

**Monday**

John had once more switched shifts for the afternoon and for Tuesday, because he was not ready to trust Sherlock's calm and controlled demeanour enough to leave him alone. But for Monday morning Mary would be the only one in the flat with the detective. She suggested that if Sherlock had nothing to do she'd keep him busy trying to figure out the best date for the wedding, since Sherlock had agreed before he'd help with the planning.

The detective appeared in the kitchen as soon as John switched on the kettle for his breakfast coffee and without a word sat down on the kitchen table and had switched on the microscope.

"Mornin'," John greeted, his hair was still wet from the shower.

Sherlock answered with a soft humming noise and started lining up slides.

"Are you even fully awake?" John joked.

"Do I have to be?" Sherlock said, now sorting out some brown glass bottles and fetching a pen and paper.

"Tea?" John smiled.

Another meaningless hum.

"Coffee?"

"Yes."

Five minutes later Sherlock was fully concentrated on dropping several liquids onto the slides, cataloguing them simultaneously. John sat down opposite him, watching his every move. Sherlock's extremely normal behaviour was ringing every alarm bell John had. He decided to call Ella to ask for another appointment for a session with her, to talk about suppressed memories.

John's morning was a bit hectic, but he found the time to call Ella and tell her about Sherlock's episode. She offered him a double appointment later that day since two other clients had cancelled their appointments. John was indecisive if that soon was a good idea, he wrote a text message to Mary asking how she and the detective were doing, he'd go home if needed rather than see Ella.

When she answered that Sherlock was still concentrated on experiments and that Mycroft had informed him that he'd arrive shortly, John decided it he hadn't an excuse to not go to see his therapist. Sherlock would be busy and Mary assured they were fine.

But after the double session the doctor was quite frustrated with Ella. Once more he wondered if she was even vaguely able to understand Sherlock… or him. They had done first one session discussing Sherlock's problems and then the second about his own issues with the whole affair of Sherlock being back.

The things she suggested to try with Sherlock would not work at all as John saw it and she seemed not to want to consider alternative methods or ideas and blocked all his tries to form the ideas into something Sherlock would listen to. But John took notes and hoped he'd somehow manage to translate this into a Sherlock-conform way himself. Ella urged him to make Sherlock go to a therapist himself, not understanding in the slightest why John was sure this wasn't an option. She also advised him to move back to his own house with Mary so Sherlock would understand he needed to seek help on his own and become active in his own healing. John was not able to make her understand why this wouldn't work, for neither of them.

.

When John came home in the early afternoon Sherlock and Mycroft had left.

John discussed the therapy session with Mary and she shared his opinion that what Ella had suggested needed a serious Sherlock-compatibility overhaul. Most of the approaches she suggested where good with normal people, but total nonsense with Sherlock, he'd either not understand the questions or would point out it was total nonsense.

So Mary took John's notes and promised him she'd try to find a way she thinks Sherlock would understand or work with, and asked John to do the same. Later they'd compare and discuss their thoughts.

After a brief lunch with Mary she left for work and John send a text to Sherlock asking what was going on.

_'Meet us at Scotland Yard in an hour. SH'_ Sherlock answered. So John changed and headed for the tube.

.

He entered Lestrade's office and the DI was alone.

"Hey, how are the two of you doing?" Lestrade greeted him.

"Lousy," John answered and sank into the visitor's chair, then briefly explained the events of the past days.

"You know, maybe you should be a bit more… brisk. Make him listen. When he was young I sometimes did that. I always felt bad about it, but at the few occasions when I kicked his ass he… complied. Maybe we're too careful. I mean… consider he just isn't able to ask for anything… Shove it at him, see what his reaction is. This sounds a bit harsh, but maybe he just can't ask for it. He thinks that the things we offer don't help, but I am not sure he understands them. That's what I figured out when he was young. Sometimes he knew what he needed but he just wasn't able to ask for it, or stated he had already tried it on his own, not understanding that it couldn't work on his own, or whatever. Besides, the possibility that help exists seems not to exist, or he just forgets it does. Or he had been told too often that he had no right to ask because he was not worth anything and a freak… Sorry, I'm not good with this."

"I know, Greg… I already did that, but… some aspects of this _are_ like dealing with a child, but… he used to listen to me when I told him about emotional things… Lately he has turned stubborn, seemed to has switched off his will to listen to me. I don't know what I did wrong. I'm a bit desperate."

Moments later the Holmes brothers the office and interrupted the conversation.

It was a rare occurrence for Lestrade to see the older Holmes, especially at Scotland Yard.

After the greetings Mycroft closed the blinds and started the conversation.

"We want to inform you, that there might be a chance that there is a possible suspect. The whole affair is somewhat delicate and therefore I suggest you handle this as an anonymous tip."

"Oh?" Lestrade made, surprised.

"You might want to observe the doings of Col. Marc Daniel Alexander, please write down the address," Mycroft instructed and Lestrade did, while John gave Sherlock a puzzling look, who just shrugged and made an unnerved gesture. This was _so_ not standard procedure.

"In case the man has his hands in your serial killer case, make absolutely sure that there is a rock-solid, unwavering heap of clear evidence when you officially approach him," Mycroft warned, then turned towards his brother, "that includes you, no more hanging around the house without clearance."

"What?" John pointed an asking gaze at the brothers.

"My dear brother spent last night at the suspects house and when he was sure the man was gone he went to gather some intel."

"What?!" John almost yelled.

Mycroft raised his hand and stopped John from continuing, "Obviously I didn't made myself clear when I told him yesterday to be discrete."

"I was, that's why I went inside to find something more concrete, because there was no official way to do it," Sherlock spit.

"Well, he was lucky, the security system recorded nothing out of order."

"That was no luck, it was _competence_. I have practice! After two years hunting criminals in the field."

"Yes, well, except that incident when…" Mycroft started.

Sherlock hissed angrily.

"…We'll discuss this later, I must go back. I'm here because I didn't trust him to tell you on his own."

Sherlock seemed to sulk and John saw the argument coming, still a bit stunned about what he had just learned. If asked, he'd have stated Sherlock had been in the flat all night. Now he wondered how many nights Sherlock had already been out on his own.

"Sherlock! Did you just confess to a Detective Inspector, that you broke into the house of…" but Lestrade was interrupted by both brothers.

"No, you misheard," Mycroft hurried to say.

"No one entered the house, as you could see if you'd checked the security system, but you won't, because this is delicate!" Sherlock hurried to spit.

John blew out his breath and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.

"How often?" he asked loudly, drowning the brother's quarrel.

"What?"

"How often have you sneaked out at night?"

"I don't sneak out!" Sherlock broadcasted hostility now.

"_Went_ out then?.. Since I'm staying over?"

"Once," Mycroft informed.

Lestrade saw John's anger, but before the doctor had time to add fuel to the argument he interfered, fearing they'd only make it all worse with a struggle right now. He feared Sherlock would vanish into one of his boltholes if he didn't feel free and safe at the flat any longer, he had done such things often enough in his youth. So the DI did the first thing that came to his mind to deescalate the situation.

"What did you find out?"

"Finally someone is concentrating on the important things!" Sherlock remarked sarcastically,

"Inside the house I found framed pictures, as expected. Mostly of the wife, and of two children, a girl and a boy. The absence of other male offsprings was remarkable, as was the fact that there were no pictures newer than… maybe the mid nineties. So, I searched for photo albums, took less than four minutes to find them, although they were carefully stored away," Sherlock paused, sitting down next to John before he continued. "The pictures showed that after the birth of the first boy a second one was born. In contrast to the first two children this one seemed clearly less wanted, since the amount of pictures taken was only a third of those taken of the other children, maybe because it just was the third and the event not as monumental as the first ones. But I assume it was more because of the deteriorating relationship of the parents… or maybe, the child was illegitimate, or the mother was already ill and had other things on her mind. There were also no pictures of the child from the point that must have been the mother's death. I found the certificate in the family register, and the dates on the last pictures of the boy dated a few weeks before her death. I'm sure the father raised the child, but he was for some reason not at all fond of him. I assume she made him promise her on her deathbed to care for the boy, which would not fit to a broken marriage, he wouldn't care about such a promise then, wouldn't he?"

The last question was directed at John. The doctor needed a moment to understand he was asked about human behaviour.

"Well, maybe they became closer again. But it's odd, yes. Not sure."

"Since there were no newer pictures I photographed some of the latest, there is a vast resemblance to our suspect, but not an unmistakable one. I found no hints at all except a name: Ian Alexander and his date of birth in the register. The man we encountered seemed to young to match him. We need to get data, now."

"Well, as interesting as this is, I need to go. I'm sure the DI knows how to proceed. We will speak later, Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was quite grumpy, even for him. He was out of the door before Greg had time to see him off.

Silence settled in the office, everyone lost in their thoughts for a moment.

"We need a computer program that renders a picture of how the child looks today."

"It's difficult with children."

"I know, but better than nothing," Sherlock answered.

"Okay, I'll have some technician do it. I will also organise surveillance, we need a reason to question him, but as your brother suggests, it might be better to collect usable data first."

"Text me the pictures," Sherlock stood up.

As did Lestrade, "Sherlock, one more stunt like this and I will pull you off this investigation, do I make myself clear?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, "Idle threat," he answered, an extremely wide faked grin on his face. Which made Lestrade suck in air through his gritted teeth in disapproval.

Sherlock closed his coat and was out of the door without another word.

"Don't say it, I know. I'm trying to get a handle on this," John stood up, too, and followed his former flatmate. "See you."

.

When they arrived home Sherlock headed straight into his room and wasn't seen for the rest of the evening.

John and Mary watched a movie and when the end credits ran over the screen they heard Sherlock in the bathroom, which he had obviously entered through his room.

Mary looked at her future husband.

"Yeah, something surely has stiffened in the past days. I mean besides the obvious. The things he relived have surely shaken him, but it was going downhill before, I'm aware, though I can't pinpoint it. Can you, John?"

"I'm at a loss. I'm desperate," the doctor breathed and she rubbed his back.

John had told her about Sherlock breaking into the house and the events of the day.

"I thought we were making progress," John continued, "But this feels like going backwards. It was better before, he didn't refuse this much. He had opened up a bit, what changed?"

"I have only seen you interact for a few days, some of those only for a few hours, I can't… it's just not clear."

"Oh, great, Dr. Freud, thank you so much! I had a really crappy session with Ella today already, stop analysing me."

"Oh, sorry. What did she say?" They rarely spoke about John's therapy sessions, not that Mary didn't ask, but he was not eager to share. She was often teasing him a bit or trying to coax him out into the light with it. He had been opened up a bit during the past months, but Mary expressed that she wanted to know more. The topic surfaced every time John had nightmares or Mary suspected he was having another kind of problem he didn't share.

But this time John told her about what he had told Ella while the late night news flickered across the telly. He finished explaining what she had said about Sherlock's behaviour and what Ella had suggested.

"I know I have said this before, but it's like… he has changed. This is… He's not even telling me how stupid I am or how blind, and is not insulting me on a regular basis. He doesn't hint how he is superior to others."

"Oh, he is!" Mary contradicted.

"Maybe, but not like before, not like he used to be."

"He has… aged, grown up. The really hard way, I can't really put a finger on it, but it's his posture, it's kind of… he has lost something virgin, not in a sexual way, but some aspects of _not knowing_ or _not understanding_ is gone. He has learned things, hard things, bad things, I can see it in his attitude and his eyes. His mind is older, the one of a much more mature man, it scares me. It's like the young man that have gone through their first tour in the service, when they come back, you can see it in their eyes how much it has changed them. Something is gone. I mean I always wished he'd grow up a bit, but not like this, _this_ scares me. He's so… soft. No, some of his facial expressions and emotional remarks are, some of them might be even oddly authentic, but the rest isn't, it's covering up other things. It's creeping me out. I'm not sure I like it, it's so very different, it's unsettling."

"I have to keep an eye on that, not sure yet, what you mean."

"No matter what I do, it's not helping, I feel so useless, I don't know what to do."

"John, you're looking really battered, let's go to bed," she hugged him and kissed his temple, John kissed her briefly on the mouth, he was overwhelmed once more with the amount of help she was offering. He had pondered a lot about how to reconcile Sherlock and Mary in the upcoming weeks, expecting it to be difficult.

They switched off the lights and headed upstairs with the tablet.

Since Mary seemed to be curious to get to know Sherlock better - she seemed not jealous at all, not that she was the type - but he had seen too often how women reacted to Sherlock, their friendship, and their shared interest in solving crimes. He had explained that and his concerns to Mary. But she made it clear she understood and that she'd like to see how they worked together, their routine, and that she wanted him to be happy and if that included solving cases with Sherlock so it was. John once more considered himself lucky to have met her and was reminded why he loved her.

"I will get up every hour and check on him, use the earplugs, you need some rest. I'm starting to really worry about you, too," Mary explained when they had shut their bedroom door.

"Don't, I'll manage. Sherlock is the one needing help," John sat down on the edge of his side of the bed while Mary started changing into pyjamas.

"John… I have to tell you something. Please don't be angry, but… I read a few books about PTSD during the past three months."

"What? Why?" John was clearly a bit annoyed and turned around to look at her.

"Honestly, I think that's quite obvious... Because, my future husband was diagnosed with it and although he has told me about some major issues I am a bit clueless about the rest. So I thought it was a good idea… and because I'm working as a nurse for god's sake. I wanted background."

"Oh," John pressed his lips into a line.

"Have _you_ ever read a book about it? I mean a real book, not just that patient information pamphlet stuff."

John puckered his lips, clearly not eager to talk about it.

"No. I relied on what my therapists told me when they diagnosed me and read a large heap of patient leaflets and booklets I was given. I read no _medical_ book about it, but the survey for military personnel at the topic. Well, maybe this is the point to do it," he rubbed his flat hands over his face, trying to draw out some tension. "Guess I tried to evade that before."

"That's why you preferred to use Ella's filters on it. But I think she is in a bit of a dilemma there. I think she can't do that. A: she doesn't seem to be the person to understand Sherlock at all, and we know there are quite a load of people out there who don't. And B: you're asking her to move to a meta level and discuss things from there when you have no background and she thinks it wouldn't be healthy for you to discuss things like this with her as your therapist."

"You think she thinks discussing it from a medical POV will interact badly with our doctor-patient relationship?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't she just tell me? Or told me which book to read then?"

"I think she thinks you are either not ready or maybe that you shouldn't try to 'treat' him."

"I am _not_, of course not! And I made that quite clear. I just need to understand what's going on. Help him help himself, because that's the only way."

"But that's what a therapist does, right?"

"Yes, but not in that way. It's totally different to…"

"You don't have to explain, I know. You're not trying to 'treat' him like a doctor, you're trying to make him better like a friend. Maybe that's why she didn't tell you about specialist books and is not eager to explain it to you, so you could go keep those separate in your line of action. Though I think she _could_ do better. The more you tell me about her the more I wonder why you picked her as your therapist. She seems to understand very little."

"Don't! I struggled enough to try to trust her, don't undermine that."

"Sorry… John, I'm sorry about not telling you earlier about the books, I love you and I wanted to know what was happening. I have seen your nightmares, I needed some background to handle it. I wanted to know the dos and don'ts, understand a bit more. So I kind of had the same motive you have with him, now."

"What did you read?"

"Some semi specialist stuff I'd call it. It's not written for studying psychology or doctor's educations. Two books for nurses and staff in hospitals, which are mostly about handling the problems and explaining general mechanisms… one for relatives and friends about all day problems and solving them. All written by specialists but for people without psychology education."

"Great," John sighed and let himself fall back onto his back.

"John, I did this because I love you and want to support you, not to give you the impression that you are not able to..."

"I know!" John answered hastily, a bit unnerved. "Thank you for all your understanding and support. I'm sorry that this is so awkward… This is just difficult, bringing up all my own symptoms up issues for the _third_ time."

"I know, you were just starting to get over the fall and the loss and now he's back and it's all stirred up. I want to be there for you."

She crawled over the bed to his side and gently stroked his head, then leaning over him to kiss him with a smile.

"Come on, let's cuddle, I'm cold."

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_I'd love to know what you think._

_Thanks for reading._


	22. Chapter 22

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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* * *

**…**

**Chapter 22**

Mary resurfaced from sleep only two hours later when she heard John moan in his sleep. She was immediately sure this was another nightmare.

She switched on the light and started to rub his arm firmly.

"John, wake up."

It usually wasn't easy to wake him but should work within a few minutes. She saw that he was soaked in sweat and paler than before.

"Nonono," John whispered.

"John, you're dreaming, wake up now!… We are save in our bed and you need to wake up now!"

John's head went from one side to the other and she saw the distress growing.

"John! You need to wake up now!" her voice was louder and firmer now, she rubbed his arm. Quite aware that he might wake disoriented or fighting, she was alert and ready to back off.

Then John stiffened and a moment later yelled in rough panic.

"SHERLOCK!"

He had screamed himself wide awake and jerked upwards, panting.

"John? John… it's okay, you're save, we are fine, Sherlock is alive. It's okay!… It's okay!" she tried to ground him.

John stumbled out of the bed in disorientation, backing away from her.

"John, it's okay!" she raised her hands to show him everything was easy.

He blinked and she saw understanding return to his eyes. He leaned against the wall sideways, still panting.

"Shit," he grimaced.

Mary unwrapped herself from the duvet and hurried to his side.

When he tried to turn away his face she was sure he was fighting tears.

"Hey, let's sit down, come on," she gently took his arm. But to her surprise he didn't even try to return to their bed, he sat down where he was, back against the wall, and hid his face in his knees.

"John. What did you dream of?"

"Barts. Fall," his voice sounded chocked and he was trembling under Mary's hands.

"Darling, don't hold this back. If you need to cry then just do it."

John shook his head.

"Why not? If this marriage is supposed to work then you need to trust me that I can handle it, and that you can lean on me in times of need. Trust issues at work?"

John shook his head again.

"What else?"

John gulped and it was a mixture of a sob and an odd sad haunted sound, that made Mary hurt with him.

She wrapped her arms around him, loosely at first, careful not to overstep a boundary. She had seen John have a panic attack before, had witnessed his voice hoarse or even breaking with grieve at Sherlock's grave, and had seen him have nightmares, but he had never really lost it in front of her.

He was stiff and tense in her arms, not reacting to the hug, his breath ragged.

"Come on, relax," she tightened her hold and then shifted her hand to the back of his skull, cupping it in a protective gesture that seemed to surprise him, because he stiffened and held his breath for a moment but then relaxed into her arms and leaned against her. She guided his head to her shoulder, holding him there gently.

John was trembling and she could feel his effort to stay still and slow down his breathing, could feel him press his lips together.

They just sat there for long minutes, John fighting for control and Mary rubbing his back and trying to soothe him. When he seemed relatively calm again she decided to try to talk about this.

"John, please tell me how you feel… You have hinted that it is easier to tell me than to talk to Ella, I need to know what you think. Come on."

"Shit, you're getting bloody therapeutic on me now?" his voice was thick with unshed tears.

"Kind off, yes, the brief talk we had when we went to bed must have stirred things up. Maybe we should talk about it, now." She released her hug to look at his face, "Come on. In sickness and health, good and bad times. You can't expect Sherlock to open up and be all close-lipped yourself."

John slowly backed away and pointed towards the bed. They stood up and shuffled over to the bed, sitting down on it.

"Just tell me what you told Ella, can you do that?"

"What good will that do?"

"I'll be able to understand, assist, be an reassuring presence… and besides I want to know when you feel bad and why."

John huffed nervously, knowing she was right. He trusted her more than Ella, he was just not sure he wanted to put that load on her. He dragged his legs onto the bed and leaned against the headboard, Mary sat next to him, cross legged, dragging the duvet up to keep them warm.

"The first days I was here, I thought we were making progress, he showed trust, he let me in, talked a bit… but now… it's like he has made a step back away from me, the distance growing bigger every day. Like… he doesn't trust me any longer. It's… I don't know, I fear he'll do things again without telling me, and therefore I relive how he jumped in my nightmares again." John pressed his fingers to his closed eyes to keep the frustration in.

"You dreamt of what happened."

"Yeah, was more like the exact memory of what happened."

They had never talked about the fall in detail, she had always been afraid to ask.

"We talked, he said goodbye, standing on the rim, when he threw away his phone I screamed up at him, but he just jumped. He just…" his voice broke again, and Mary again wrapped herself around him.

"Maybe I am afraid he'll do it again. Maybe I don't trust him to keep himself alive."

"Seriously, I think it has nothing to do with him not trusting you, John." Mary tried gently.

"On the outside he's an odd mixture of a - kind of - sentimental or nostalgic or whatever façade and behind that he is as distant as he was when I first met him. Not letting anyone in."

"He needed that in the past two years, to survive, to fight Moriarty, to get through that, I think he can't just switch it off from one day to the next."

"He has said it surprisingly direct that he wanted me back and had missed me, why is he now shoving me away again?"

"He isn't. He probably senses your anger and is afraid you'll reject him."

"What?" John's demeanour changed from desperate to aghast, he backed away.

"He senses your anger, and thinks you are saying one thing and doing the opposite. I'm not sure he believes that you really have forgiven him… and your underlying anger is probably the prove to him."

"That's ridiculous. I'm not angry any longer." John stated, slight panic now in his voice.

Mary gave a soft sarcastic laugh, "Oh yes, you are. Don't get me wrong, I understand that anger, and he probably does too, now. You said he said 'sorry' in his way several times, I think he feels your anger and his own anger at himself for the hurt he caused you and those two are making him keep a distance. Part of him feels guilty."

"I'm not angry!"

"I know you know he'd never have done this without a good reason. This is just about not being able to get over this as fast as you want to, isn't it?"

"Maybe, yes… yes, my head knows, my heart is still…"

"Well, you believed in Sherlock Holmes, although the rest of the world didn't."

"Yes… but this is not like I don't know that… I _do_ know. I'm the luckiest person to get a second chance… to have him return from the dead… I know all that. But…"

"… but it just hurts… You can't do anything about it. No rational thinking helps with this. You've been trying since the restaurant. That night, when you decided that you wanted him back in your life, when the joy overpowered the anger. But the hurt remains… and you can't kill it."

"Yes, thank you, couldn't have said it any better," John murmured, tipping his head forwards again. This was an emotional roller coaster.

"So, yes, you are, John! Some aspect of you is still angry with him. You don't want to be, but a small part of you is still really angry…."

"I'm… just still so very shocked, bewildered and… wounded that he _really_ did this to me," it started to pour out of John, "That he hurt me this profoundly and doesn't even understand what he has done. This hurts more than anything. I feel… betrayed, and used, and unwanted, and… like all I ever did had no meaning to him at all. Like he showed me I am useless and don't count at all very clearly. I know it's not true. I want him back in my life but… this is lingering, the same feelings I had about him committing suicide, the same betrayal."

"You try to hide it, and in general you're doing good, but to him and to me… we can sense it. I am sure he doesn't know how to handle that. He doesn't even understand it fully, though he understands it's his fault," Mary explained what she thought she had learned about Sherlock and his problems with human nature up to now.

"He has no experience with such things. He just doesn't know what to do to make this right. He probably thinks about what to do right for hours straight, but in the end he has gone through so much and weighted so many facts against each other that he is more confused than before," she continued.

John felt like gravity had just been increased, he rubbed his neck.

"He can't sort this in, into the database you told me about, I mean… I'm sure he's overwhelmed with _these_ aspects of human nature. I think he's afraid to cause any more damage and therefore keeps to himself. He totally didn't see this coming. All those carefully planned scenarios - hunting down Moriarty's web, taking care off every aspect, taking all possible precautions - but in the end, the human factor has taken him by surprise, more surprise than he could probably even handle if he was fully himself. This created a maze he can not cope with alone. He's lost."

"All right, so why doesn't he just follow my lead? I already told him that he hurts me even more by keeping me out of the loop, why doesn't he get it? He even admitted that he'd feel the same if our positions were switched."

"He's hurting, too. And what he has gone through probably messes his experiences with human behaviour up even more. He needs more explanations, it think. These emotions are new to him, the trauma, the nightmares, he's frightened. Besides, you told me he senses feelings different. You said he has a database of translations of how sensations and feelings feel for him and how he'd describe them and a translation into how normal humans might describe them. Maybe he's not sure if his and your feelings with the same name are actually the same, and have the same intensity. He's just afraid to loose you again."

"Sherlock Holmes is many things, but usually he is _not_ frightened."

"Maybe the last two years taught him…"

John stared at her in astonishment, she was right. It was so simple and so grave, and so serious. Sherlock had experienced shocking vulnerability.

Mary hurried to continue when she sensed John's horror in the air.

"You know, how you described him to me and how I sense his behaviour, he's really good at memorising things… taking every minute detail in, not able to over-see it, seeing everything, it might amplify the problem here. When he's in a situation today that reminds him of a situation during his 'time away', where something similar has happened and he wished you were there, and now that you are he tries to take it in, tries to appreciate it. He has learned how bad it was when you weren't there, but instead of it feeling good that he has you back in his life he only feels terror of how it was to have your not there, be totally alone… and his anxiety that he might loose you again because of what he did to save/keep you. He's totally lost with all this. He feels he can't move without doing something wrong."

"Hell, what makes you think that?"

"I also observe sometimes, John. This is what I see. Occasionally he starts a reaction but then consciously stops it. Keep your eyes open and you'll see it."

"Great, are you telling me too now, that I see but not observe!" John was angry now, more about himself and his helplessness than anything else.

"No. You are a good observer, but this is where the tiny remains of your anger block the pathways that would register this. The really subtle things you don't look at," Mary grimaced inwardly. She had meant this to be a soothing nice supportive conversation, but she was confronting John in a way she wasn't sure was really good. Would this cause trouble that she was this direct?

"Maybe I am too busy trying to keep him alive to care for such tiny things." John once more buried his face in his hands. "I'm afraid he goes out there and gets drugs every time he leaves my sight. Every night is a danger night."

"God, sorry, I didn't mean to hint that you… John, this is a brainstorming, no accusing, no blame, just theorizing and searching. God, you are doing good, I just wanted to say there are more possibilities. Of course keeping him alive is the most important. I didn't mean to…"

"Sorry, yes, I know you didn't. I am just a bit on the edge. Go on," he leaned forwards and kissed her temple.

"From what I see he really tries to be kind, I think it's a way to ask for forgiveness."

"And that just not like him… I'm not sure he needs forgiveness… besides I did more than show him forgiveness the past weeks. I took care, I was kind, I was patient, I stayed over, I went to investigate with him… What else can I do? I just don't know what to do any more. I feel helpless and my hands are bound… I fell I have already tried everything that is human possible."

"You did a lot, more than most people would do for anybody. He knows, he wants to trust those actions, but he's just too horrified of all this to dare to do it… he's afraid he'll loose you to me. We need to counteract this… need to be aware of this."

"How can you be so…"

"…understanding?… I knew how important he was to you. The room he had in your life, even in death, was large, when I met you his presence was still really huge, even after two years and I respected that. And I respect it now that he is back. I know what it means to you."

John fought tears again now, forcefully pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I think the way you handled this up to now is the best thing you could do. It will take time, just time… and explanations of your feelings and human nature."

"I'm not sure we have time…"

"What?" Mary sounded alarmed, "You think he's suicidal?"

"No… not really… I'm just afraid he might slip away, vanish, fall back into old habits, be reckless and risky… I don't know how to put it. Like he's masking the really dark things with softness but overdoing it, I'm not sure I can trust his… softness and kindness… I just don't know anything any more. This is such a mess. I feel shoved away. Why does he do that?"

"This might sound a bit odd, but maybe he's unconsciously testing you."

"What?"

"Maybe he just tries to test your genuineness, wants to be sure you really have forgiven him… how deep he can rely on you. Maybe he is testing your will to stay, testing your will to keep up with him. I am also quite sure he is really ashamed."

"Ashamed?"

"Yes. Ashamed and angry with himself, that he failed to see this coming."

"Oh. Not sure about that."

"Okay… One more thing. Do you remember how you felt when you came back from Afghanistan?"

"Hff, of course I do. How could I forget that."

"Hey, don't get this wrong, I'm just asking to make us understand, go with me. Do you think he feels like that?"

"What?… Not sure. No… it was not that his life and career was taken away, and not that he suffered permanent injuries to his mind and body. He can have his job back - his 'career' if you want to put it that way - is still there. I think that is the most important thing to him, his work."

"John, I… think this is kind of the anger speaking…. He threw away his career to save you and his friends. Sure, he has it back, but… are you granting him the right to be as bad as you were when you came back? Lost, not sure how to go on, having lost friends, feeling useless? He might experience those things different, but I think they are as devastating as yours were."

"What makes you think I don't?" John asked softly.

"Just wondering if you grant him the same level of sorrow. You're a selfless friend here, trying to rescue that friendship. But so is he, in his own way. I think he was a loyal friend who knowingly killed his reputation, left to protect the things most cared about, and I might add that his level of loyalty is even alarming. But right now he is a man who is only able to see the _bad_ things, the tiny bit of rejection and anger that still exists in you. He can't see the 98 percent of friendship and love and care you give him, because he is depressed. He might be not able to receive it. You had to learn to see such things in therapy. He doesn't even know he has to look out for those or that this is part of his problem."

"And he'll probably scold my 'sentiment' and tell me it's rubbish if I try to explain that… and run away."

"Then we need to gently foist it to him in a way he doesn't even know it's happening."

"Good luck trying that with Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, I think it'll work splendidly, we just need to do it in a way he thinks it's his idea. Let me try. I'm in a different position. He doesn't know me that well."

She nudged him and dragged his sleeve.

"Come on, lie down, I think we have spilled enough guts here."

John grunted as he moved into a supine position.

When they lay next to each other again in the dark, Mary on her side, she stroked his head, in a firm and reassuring way. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"I love you," John whispered and she answered by kissing his temple.

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_A/N:_

_This chapter was actually the second one I wrote for the stories over a year ago, the story then kind of evolved around it. Originally I planned theses events to be in the beginning of the first part of 'Lessons in Friendship 8', but then it felt too early and I had problems with this kind of confrontation and was really not sure about it. It's really difficult for me to write John and Mary, and especially having such a conversation. So I just shoved it (together with the first one I wrote) in front of me the whole time, never sure it was the right moment to put it in. Well, here it is. I'm still very insecure about it being out of character or stupid._

_Constructive criticism welcome. _  
_Please review._


	23. Chapter 23

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

Well, I can't sleep (it is 4:41 in the morning), so I'm here and giving this chapter the final touch. My mood is quite dark right now, too. Be aware.

Trigger warnings ahead: Dark thoughts and drug use.

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**Chapter 23**

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock jumped up from the kitchen table, where he had sat staring down his microscope in deep concentration.

He knew _that_ scream. He knew_ that_ voice in _that_ tone, that exact intonation of his name.

The memory of it was carved painfully deep into his innermost soul, burned into his mind and still a raw spot.

Was he just suffering from another attack or had he really heard that?

Suddenly the reality of the kitchen was overwritten with elements of the memory of the moment when he had heard John scream.

It was when he had jumped.

Blood was running down the side of his face, tingling.

The excitement of the plan, the things that had just happened on the roof. The utter panic in which John had yelled that single word into the emptiness that was underneath him while he felt himself falling.

Moriarty was wrong.

Falling didn't feel like flying. It felt like dying.

He had forgotten how it smelled, until now, how being this close to someone putting a gun into the mouth and blowing his brains out smelled.

The odour of blood, and gun powder… and a hint of open cavity surgery.

John's scream - simultaneously the feeling of falling - had surprised him… badly, had shaken him… to a degree that filled him with horrified bewilderment.

Now he was on the ground, trying to steel himself for the confrontation that was only moments away. Again, the smell of blood was there, now his own, from a blood donation bag, spread across his face by some of his helpers, to ensure it all seemed real and passed tests for his DNA.

Nausea welled up and brought his body's perception back, with a gasp he returned to the reality of the kitchen.

Had he imagined the scream? Was it just a memory running wild?

Before he had made the actual decision he was halfway up the stairs to John's room.

When he heard the voices from upstairs he stopped dead in his tracks.

John must have had a nightmare.

He needed to make sure his flatmate was okay, now that he _had_ the luxury to actually respond to John's desperation. This time he was able to answer to that distressed yell, to make sure to tell John that it was all a lie, _now _he could do it. During his time away he had wished on several occasions that he could have eased John's horror, it had haunted him.

Almost upstairs he heard Mary's voice.

"John? John… It's okay, you're save, we're fine, Sherlock is alive. It's okay!… It's okay!" she tried to ground her partner, her voice clearly harried.

Sherlock froze.

Right. Mary was here. She was taking care of John now, he had no right any longer.

John would probably throw a fit if he entered, some privacy nonsense.

He wanted to, he needed to, but he was two years too late for that.

Mary was what John wanted now, he was no longer in demand.

There was movement and John was panting.

"Darling, don't hold this back. If you need to cry then just do it…"

Sherlock held his breath.

Was she really suggesting he needed to cry? What good would that do?

Then it hit him like a bolt. John must be really bad, distressed, panicking.

Sherlock did another step towards the door.

A broken noise, that made Sherlock flinch, was all that could be heard for some long moments.

"Come on, relax," he heard Mary urge.

Another long silence.

Then muffled silent words, too low to be understood, followed by normal speech.

"Just tell me what you told Ella, can you do that?"

"What good will that do?" John asked back, formulating Sherlock's exact thoughts.

"I'll be able to understand, assist, be a reassuring presence… and besides I want to know when you feel bad and why."

Sherlock felt something odd when he heard Mary say it, that was a strange reasoning. But, he had heard it before. Some people claimed that talking about the obvious caused some people to feel better. He had always been sure and glad this didn't fit to him and John.

Was this what John needed now? He had changed.

Sherlock felt replaced and unneeded, in fact he was even the cause of John's distress. He had destroyed the most precious thing in his life: John's friendship.

He was an idiot… and he didn't deserve friends, probably the rest of the world had understood that long ago and therefore he never had friends.

Mary would be better for John, better than he could ever be.

Then John spoke, "The first days I was here, I thought we were making progress, he showed trust, he let me in, talked a bit… but now… it's like he has made a step back away from me, the distance growing bigger every day. Like… he doesn't trust me any longer. It's… I don't know, I fear he'll do things again without telling me, and therefore I relive how he jumped in my nightmares again."

So, it _was_ his doing, _his_ fault. He had caused John pain, constant pain since he came back, and now caused nightmares again, too.

Recently he had learned how those _really _felt. Not the occasional bad dream a person had, _this_ was so much worse than he had ever imagined nightmares could be. In his opinion the word needed a new definition because the fact that those the two things had the same name was absolutely misleading. The new form of nightmares had started during his time away and he had dreamt of that roof-scene, too.

"You dreamt of what happened," Mary said, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, was more like the exact memory of what happened."

Sherlock winced inwardly, he didn't want to hear this on one hand, but he also needed to on the other.

"We talked, he said goodbye, standing on the rim, when he threw away his phone I screamed up at him, but he just jumped. He just…"

When John's voice caught the sensation of pressure in Sherlock's head rose profoundly, and there was another feeling climbing up his throat. He wouldn't be able to hold that back for long… Must be grief.

"Maybe I am afraid he'll do it again. Maybe I don't trust him to keep himself alive."

So not only he wasn't sure he could trust himself, but John also didn't trust him.

Probably no one did and therefore there was no chance to get anything back that had been good in life before the fall.

Trust and affection were so very fragile, and he was quite clumsy when it came to human affection and interaction. As a child his inability to handle it had haunted him, until he had decided to listen to Mycroft and just switch it off. His brother had seen how he suffered from other people and had suggested he just stopped caring and never get involved with others any deeper than a platonic work relationship.

It had been idiotic to hope he'd manage now.

But at least now he knew it was his own fault, it was much easier to hate and blame and punish himself, rather than everybody else, which was also a socially and legally questionable course of action. He had been told so often he was the faulty one, the rest of the world was right. Well, now at least he had final proof. He was wrong. He had always been wrong. How had he managed to be so stupid not to see it?

And John was the one who suffered from his stupidity. Because John did care and if he cared at all about John he should have deduced and prevented that. He should have protected John, because that was what friends should do, protect people.

But he had enjoyed being liked and stepped into the trap of feeling good with another person around who seemed to understand him.

He should have known, even if John hadn't.

Had he longed for company so much that he had been blind?

He should have know.

The sense memory of John holding his wrist at the pulse point invaded his mind without warning, another memento, that made the scene rush back into his reality.

It had been the only contact that was established, and it was like a lifeline and like the worst touch he had ever endured. It had hurt mentally, felt cruel.

Lying on the pavement, he had felt the distress grow, which made the whole thing much more difficult. He'd blow the whole operation to hell if anyone saw he was actually not dead, and it would kill John if he didn't manage to get a grip on this. His heartbeat was so intense it must be causing the nausea, he had not seen _this _coming.

John's touch had been cold and trembling, must be going into shock. He felt it, this tiny enormous touch.

He had foreseen it would happen, therefore the ball under his armpit.

But he hadn't expected the impact it had on his own body or his soul.

His transport reacted with anxiety, something he was not really used to, he needed to endure the whole situation, manage to keep it under control, it proved to be very hard.

The water from the pavement soaked through his coat and he started to feel it seep into his back. Physical coldness added to the mental one. Quite inconvenient. The absurdity of the situation was grave and had a really bad bright grey taste.

John's desperate moans made his heartbeat pick up speed.

"No, god no…" John didn't let go of his wrist and the grip turned into something painful. Sherlock saw - out of the corner of his eyes - people were trying to drag John away, but the doctor didn't want to let go.

That situation was over, he was home now! He had tagged several bad memories with reminders that he had lived through them already and that therefore they were in the past. This was actually the first time it worked as planned, reminding him to re-enter reality.

When he finally managed, the memory of the touch stayed. Back then it had for days, months, and he still could recall how the echo actually felt, it was almost laughable, like a phantom pain-touch.

He was on the stairs, the smell of the staircase unique.

Since his return John had extraordinary often felt for his pulse. Sherlock assumed the reason was that he needed to make sure he was in fact alive, needed to counteract his own memory of feeling that the gentle throbbing of the blood vessel hadn't been there before. Therefore he had endured it, hoping it was helpful for John.

The second time it had happened, he found it was also quite interesting for himself. The touch was warm and felt save… and home, and like a peace offering, and like a small bit of being forgiven… and cared for and soothed. Physical contact with John had always been different. In contrast to other people's touch it had been neutral, when so many other's was bad and made him shiver from repulsion. Over time it had even shifted from a neutral zone to a positive one.

One night during his stay in Nepal - he had been on what might be called a bed, trying to think - when the memory of the touch at his pulse point was suddenly there and he wondered if John's soul was reaching out to him or if it was just him regretting his friend's absence.

Missing John had unsettled him that night, it had even caused physical pain, his head and intestines were tense and plagued him with burning and other irritating sensations.

The next morning a monk had taken him away from the group, stating he needed 'healing'. He had tried to refuse, but they seemed to know better. He even wondered why they hadn't already thrown him out, seeing through his cover.

During the cleansing rituals that followed he had been surprised by the healer. The man had deduced _him_, which had left him in awe and a bit amused, but what impressed Sherlock the most, and he had to admit being impressed was quite a rare occurrence, was the aura the man carried with him. Sherlock could physically sense it, like an area of denser softer air.

In the following weeks the monks not only helped him with his goals but also took intensive care of Sherlock's physical needs, he was in fact freeing them of a heavy burden. Though Sherlock tried to wind out of their care at first, he soon felt that his body was reacting in a positive way.*

"He isn't. He probably senses your anger and is afraid you'll reject him." Mary's voice jerked him back to the present.

At least she seemed to understand him a bit sometimes.

He continued to listen, it was strenuous.

"On the outside he's an odd mixture of a - kind of - sentimental or nostalgic or whatever façade and behind that he is as distant as he was when I first met him. Not letting anyone in."

Sherlock's brain started to buzz. They were deducing him.

This was awkward. He should leave.

But if he did he'd never figure this out. He'd never solve it.

"So, yes, you are, John! Some aspect of you is still angry with him. You don't want to be, but a small part of you is still really angry…."

"I'm… just still so very shocked, bewildered and… wounded that he _really_ did this to me. That he hurt me this profoundly and doesn't even understand what he has done. This hurts more than anything. I feel… betrayed, and used, and unwanted, and… like all I ever did had no meaning to him at all…. This is lingering, the same feelings I had about him committing suicide, the same betrayal."

So it was true, what he had feared, that John had only _said_ he had forgiven him, but in reality he was still very angry and just covered it up. Sherlock knew John was bitter about being deceived, but he was better bitter than dead.

Why was he then here, pretending to care? Out of pity or…? Whatever.

"I am sure he doesn't know how to handle that. He doesn't even understand it fully, though he understands it's his fault," Mary explained.

So Mary blamed him, too. They were all blaming him. How had he been such an idiot? Hoping they'd see beyond this, understand the greater good?

Well, superficially it was true, it _was_ his fault. He had blown it all to hell, the only good thing that existed in his life: John.

Sherlock decided he had heard enough, this was awful.

He turned and very slowly made his way down the stairs, aware of Mary's soothing voice.

John seemed to need quite some time to get back his composure.

The turmoil inside his mind had risen during the past minutes. Not only had he suffered from panic caused by John's scream, but now he was unsettled and trembling.

He _needed_ this to stop or he'd go mad.

It felt like reality slipping away, being caught in a nightmare, that was turning into reality. He couldn't stand this any longer.

He had no right to hope for forgiveness. Why should people forgive him? He indeed would stumble into things like this again. He had all his life, no matter how many rules he configured for human interaction, it was always wrong. The more work he seemed to put into it, the more it went all wrong. Human nature was just too huge to manage with a database, no matter how well maintained.

He was a failure, every normal human being could manage those things to a certain degree, but he just kept blundering, no matter how good his intentions were, it was all wrong.

He knew since he was a child that it didn't work. But parents and teachers had encouraged him and told him to give it time, he'd manage, it would work out fine. But he knew when he was seven this was piling up into a real problem. Since then he had worked on compensating, but now he finally realised there was just no way.

He'd always drive the tiny little good things in life away with his interpersonal incompetence. Desperation about this insight made him feel worse, but it didn't matter. He deserved to feel bad.

Sherlock re-entered the kitchen, his heart was beating painfully. He was soaked in sweat and shivering.

The scream had brought back his own memories, very unpleasant.

He remembered his dream from a week ago, when he had watched John fall to death from the roof of Bart's, new distress blossomed with just thinking of the name of said place.

This felt bad, taking all the warmth - that meant living - out of him, sucking his energy away.

His thoughts were once more moving in endless circles and spirals, and not growing forwards as they should be to be productive and interesting.

Thinking was compromised.

Also his body felt disgusting.

He wanted _out_.

Felt like mental itching. Everything was tweaking and he felt his skin was as raw as his consciousness, hearing was almost painful. He could barely tolerate the small noises of his movements, they grated on his nerves, more than that, they were too loud.

Vibrations of traffic outside made him feel like he needed to kick something, hard.

He wanted out. Not feeling, not sensing, no nothing.

Trying to sleep like this would unfold more bad memories he couldn't keep contained at the moment.

He made it to the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom, there he had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright.

He closed his room's door after him, and stood there in the middle of the room, feeling like his pain receptors were firing so much he was not even eager to sit down, fearing it would hurt.

But it wasn't pain reception, it was mental anguish, wasn't it?

He felt more defective than he had ever in his life.

He should have stayed away from John. John would be so much better now without him.

He had hurt John by simply reappearing. He had no right to do this. How had he been so blasé to assume coming back was a good idea? He had been sure John would be happy to have him back, but the other man had moved on and was just pretending to want him back out of pity and loyalty.

He felt dizzy, not really sure what was happening, just that if felt bad.

Distraught, heavy, sick and… at the end of the line. He was trembling, his body reacting to his mind.

It was pathetic… again.

He couldn't do this anymore..

He'd go mad with these thoughts, he needed them to stop. They felt like his own but some aspect of them felt also foreign.

Just stop!

He didn't know what to do.

The turmoil is making him stagger, his knees hit the ground in front of his bed.

He knew there are heavy duty emotions at work inside him, but he has no clue at all what they are. All he knows it that they are so intense he almost loses the connection to his body. But that would be good, he had wished for that, though not like this. This feels bad, so intense, malfunctioning. A storm, he knew he can't weather.

He had experienced this feeling before, when it was clear he'd loose, he'd die.

Like he had been in the cellar, the final realisation that he couldn't go on, that his body would give up, the strain too much, nothing left to fight with.

The renewed panic was as ugly as it had been the first times, he stumbled into the bathroom.

He needed to get away!

Have a break… A pause to recuperate... to use the emergency cord.

He had feared where this was heading, but only when his gaze fell onto the tub in the light that shone in from his room he really made the final decision.

He switched on the light.

There it was, his escape route. The morphine was in the maintenance hatch of the tub. Why not use it?

Before, he had not wanted to use it, but now… Now - he sucked in air in frustration - _now_ he wanted it. Wanted peace and quiet and rest. He deserved some relief after all he had been through. It hadn't been easy and… it didn't matter any longer, the reason he had recoiled.

The reason was no longer there, John would soon be lost, so trying not to hurt him was no longer relevant. He'd marry Mary and forget about him in a few weeks.

Maybe the painful termination of their relationship would shorten when John realised he was taking drugs again. It would be better for them both.

He'd be so angry he'd leave. It would at least be over fast.

With shaking hands he knelt down and fetched the hidden screwdriver from the cabinet under the sink.

He opened the hatch and with clumsy fingers, dragged the package containing the morphine out from between the old tubing.

He had the syringes out before he knew what he was doing, when he finally did realise he shoved the qualms away immediately.

No longer relevant!

_Nothing_ mattered any longer.

John would not want him back anyway.

Mycroft was right, every heart was broken, everything died, it was all futile, caring was not an advantage, it only meant suffering and dread.

He was angry at himself for not having himself kept in the dark. He would not feel this bad right now if he had never allowed himself to taste companionship.

Before he had known it, it hadn't been so hard to endure it's absence, but now that he knew it and it was gone, it felt far worse. He should have stayed away from it.

Was this caring?

No, caring was for another persons sake, this was purely on his side.

Was he overreacting? He knew he was depressed and parts of this sounded more like the depression talking than himself.

John wouldn't be here if he didn't care. He usually acted honestly and straight forward. Like punching him or yelling at him when he was angry.

But even if all his current thoughts were the depression speaking, the ups and downs of those made him go mad, the inconsistency and the doubts and his own stupidity. Part of him was dying and he couldn't handle the agony it suffered while doing so.

It was all too much, he wanted this to stop!

Evade Mycroft's cameras, do it in the bathroom.

He locked the door.

Intravenous injection worked immediately and increased the risk of addiction because of the pleasant rush it caused, so intramuscularly injection would probably be the better choice, because it would give him about fifteen minutes until it started to kick in, enough time to get into bed on steady looking feet and without causing suspicion to anyone who might be watching.

He decided to use his thigh, upper arm was too much work and too easy to spot.

He sat on the toilet seat and filled the syringe with a normal dose, no need to use too much because he wasn't any longer used to it, classical overdose cause.

Carefully he stored away the paraphernalia back into the hatch before swiftly injecting the medication into his thigh. He put the used recapped syringe into the hiding place, too, then closed the lid.

He had to concentrate to stand securely. The aftershocks of the…

What was it?

A light flashback probably…

And what he had just learned…

And maybe even from the shock of what he had just done.

Disturbing. No, it was disturbing how much they affected his body.

He used to loo, he'd not be able to get up later.

Something whispered that he needed to make sure this was an exception and he huffed in annoyance.

It didn't matter. Where were those ideas coming from?

Right, it must be the 'protect- John-routine' still running in the background.

He started to go after it to erase it, but then he found he couldn't.

It was a deep interference and he should probably not do this in his current state, he'd mess things up.

What was he afraid off? _Everything_ was messed up already, it didn't matter any longer. Nothing mattered.

The bed felt good under him. He wondered if any bed in his life had ever felt this good as this felt now. During his hiatus he had imagined he'd be home in this very bed, safe and sound, to distract himself from camping in some rainy Russian outskirts or an Asian tundra.

This was the only place he had liked to sleep all his life. No other bedroom had ever felt like home.

It smelled like home and the duvet was soft and cosy. It felt good, warm and save, as it had before, but it was now besmirched with his failure. The whole flat was.

But for now he needed to remember how it had felt before the fall.

Distress rose when something told him even the memory was forever lost.

Then something shifted, it felt the tiniest bit of good.

It was suddenly possible to shove away the distress. Like it had been after they had returned from Baskerville. John had taken care of him there, when he had a panic attack. He had been nice and understanding and it had all been safe and home and dark red.

He blinked when he realised it must be the medication starting to take effect already, he hadn't eaten, which was probably speeding up things a bit.

He had just decided to concentrate on shoving the bad memories away and recalling more good things, and forcing his body to relax, when the nausea - which had been present for the past hour - suddenly rose and interfered with that plan.

He groaned.

Of course, after such a long episode of abstinence he'd suffer from the initial side-effects, had happened before.

He knew he would, but somehow had ignored the knowledge. He dialled his body's perception down.

But some horror kept lurking somewhere and he felt he was no longer able to keep it at bay, it threatened to overwhelm him. He needed to keep it caged until he was out. He could not handle it.

Ten desperate and horrible minutes later the drug finally started to work, but it would be another thirty minutes until the peak would be reached. He cursed his decision, he should have put it into the vein.

Sensations started to become more unsteady and exaggerated. Then something warm started to hum somewhere, the humming moved into his body, then evaded his mind. He surrendered to it, welcoming it.

It was quite slow, which made it a different experience than he usually had. He was desperately waiting for release, his jaw clenched and his mind struggling not to give into the panic attack that was lurking.

It was annoying how long it took.

But in the end it just swapped over him and graciously took him out of his misery.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_* If I identified it right, the monastery shown in the mini-episode is actually in Nepal, it must be Thyangboche (Tengboche) Monastery with the Ama Dablam in the Background, near the Everest, not sure though, I've never been to the Everest Region, too many tourists. _

_But I hiked up the footpath that leads from Pothana (near Pokhara, Nepal) to the Annapurna and Machhapuchare Base Camps, if you take a turn at the right spot (Deurali) that path heads up towards Tibet, though it might take _a few_ more days to get up there. _

_It was both the most awesome and most difficult journey of my life (hyperactive sensory perception and Nepal are a quite… _interesting_ combination) ... and it was physically challenging as well, I went without a guide because I felt I needed to do this alone. _

_Well, long story short: the recent events make my heart ache, which is with all the fine, helpful and open-minded Nepali people I met there. I now wonder if they are safe and how they are doing in the aftermath of the earthquake. I am mentally with them and wish everybody there the best and that they are safe. _

_._

_Thank you for reading.  
_

_Please leave a review._


	24. Chapter 24

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

_Many thanks to the people who wrote a review. _

_Writing is a lot of work and it's great to get some feedback. Thank you! :)_

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* * *

**…**

**Chapter 24**

**Tuesday**

John rose with Mary early the next morning, not able to get back to sleep after the alarm woke them, the aftermath of the past night still very present. He planned on helping Sherlock with the case, although he had no idea yet how to do that.

But when he came downstairs Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but there was a note that said: 'I'm at Scotland Yard. Back at noon, Mycroft will visit.'

When did he leave and why this early? John wondered if he was evading his brother or was notifying him that he'd be back for that. At least his former flatmate had left a note this time. Mary frowned at the sheet of paper but left for work, there had been a last minute change of plan at the surgery.

After breakfast the doctor lay down on the sofa to nap until Sherlock came back, he had lost a lot of sleep recently. But still sleep didn't come, although exhaustion was making his eyelids uncomfortably heavy. To calm his mind he send a text to the detective.

'Anything interesting? JW'

The answer came a few moments later, 'No.'

It didn't make him happy, but the fact how fast it came, and that it came at all, eased his mind. On one hand, John was getting worried about the frequent visits of the older Holmes, but was glad the man was showing he cared on the other, also, he somehow lifted a bit of the weight from John's shoulders by having an eye on his brother and getting after him when John couldn't.

Last night he had informed the couple that the flat would be observed at night, to make sure Sherlock didn't leave unnoticed. Though John was sure Sherlock would be able to evade being seen if he wanted to and therefore wondered if this was a waste of time.

He must have finally drifted off, because the next thing he knew were steps on the stairs.

Sherlock stormed in, cursing his brother, and John needed quite some time to wake up enough to understand that his temporary flatmate was angry to be under surveillance. John noticed he must have slipped into deep sleep because he really had a hard time waking up. He just listened to Sherlock's ranting and nodded here and there and tried to hide the fact that he was glad they at least tried to keep an eye on him. He distantly recognised that something was different about Sherlock's aura, but he was too tired to grasp it.

When he was awake enough to stand up and take a closer look at what was odd, Sherlock had retreated into the bathroom and was showering.

.

"Our colonel was caught today erasing files from a military server," Mycroft started only moments after he had entered the living room.

"What kind of files?" Sherlock came out of his room, in a fresh dressing gown and still with wet hair.

"We don't know yet. We are a bit surprised that he did it from work. Quite stupid," when Mycroft's gaze fell onto his younger brother he frowned.

Sherlock didn't look up to greet him while he adjusted the belt and John became more aware of Sherlock's soft tone.

The brothers often seemed to ignore the necessity of greetings or introductions, they often appeared to continue a conversation that had been started somewhere else. As if one just switched into their channel. John found it quite strange in the beginning, and needed several month to actually understand they just did this. Though Mycroft tried to set his brother an example of the necessary of greeting rituals he also often couldn't be bothered. John found it actually kind of funny, especially after Sherlock had explained to him - when asked about it - that it was kind of a compliment, to be so close to not need stupid greetings and unnecessary rituals. He explained he'd only do this with people that were really close and that it underlined the closeness. John had an eye on it from then and found out Sherlock did that with him, too, he just hadn't noticed most of the time.

"I might have damaged his WiFi… in a way that prevents all computers from using the connection, though the network itself states if works perfectly fine," Sherlock put on the kettle.

"Why would you do that?" John asked.

"To force him to do online-things from work, not the security of home," Sherlock's tone implied he should have known himself.

"Oh, that's clever," John praised, ignoring the insulting tone.

As if on cue Mycroft's phone rang and he picked up immediately. After about five minutes - in which they listened carefully - he finished the call and started to explain.

"He's in custody, refuses to talk. I'll be informed if he talks."

"What did he delete?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Wow, no so fast, why is he in custody?" John wanted to know, but was ignored.

"That's where it gets odd. He deleted hundreds of little files containing things that seemed to be absolute nonsense," Mycroft elaborated.

"Something connected to his son?"

"Oddly, his son's old files were not there any longer, probably he deleted those earlier, but there's nothing in the log that indicated they were actually deleted. They are just not there."

"Maybe he's just good with computers?" John suggested.

"Don't be ridiculous, no one who's good with computers does criminal activities from work when his home WiFi fails."

"No, he deleted files that seem to have no connection at all to his son."

"Bring copies," Sherlock said.

"I will. He'll stay in custody for 48 hours, and you need to find something until then, that's all I can do," Mycroft turned towards the door, but demonstratively looked up and down his brother, he seemed to struggle with himself, taking breath but then only said, "Call me," and vanished.

"Sure," Sherlock rolled his eyes, then turned away from John, too and made himself tea.

John had no time to act because the next moment Mrs Hudson was there and ran around the flat.

"Have any of you red laundry?… I can't fill my machine."

"There are some shirts, but they are clean, if it doesn't matter feel free to use them," Sherlock spoke absentmindedly while standing next to the table and skipping through the newspaper.

She playfully slapped this hip with a dishtowel and laughed, John grinned about the familiar interaction. The housekeeper was the only one who managed to lighten Sherlock's mood a tiny bit at the moment. He was eased with the fact that it was even possible, but it only lasted a few moments, because the next the contrast between Sherlock's tired looks and slightly puffy eyes and his friendly and relaxed behaviour felt odd.

"Go get the laundry," she ordered and he headed into his room while sipping the tea.

John went to check his room, too.

Half an hour later Mary called and asked him to come to the clinic, two doctors had become sick with the recent flu epidemic that usually his London at this season during the morning and he was needed. She had arranged to come home in two hours because there were enough nurses. John asked Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on the detective in the meantime.

.

Mary came home and Mrs Hudson was barely down the stairs when she started washing up. Sherlock was sitting at his laptop reading emails. It went on like this for almost an hour, but then Mary appeared in front of him and spoke, in a soft and kind voice.

"Sherlock, you are hurting John!"

"What?" Sherlock, not happy about getting jumped like this, frowned.

They had barely talked during the past hour, but now this poured out of Mary.

"Shoving him away and keeping him in the dark is making him worse."

John had said that before. He had stored that information already.

"You want to evade confronting him, and you want to keep things to yourself because they are ugly, but he might be the only person who could actually understand and help. You're hiding. And - as before - hiding from him is bad for the both of you. I'm waiting for you to understand that."

Sherlock huffed, annoyed about her deducing abilities. She was wrong, wasn't she?

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Yeah, I know, that's exactly my point. If it would only concern you, it'd be your decision, but this is affecting both of you and I need to protect John. He had enough misery for a lifetime, already. Besides, we are not talking about it, I'm just informing you. Open up to John!"

"How am I supposed to do that?" when he said it he realised some aspect of him obviously wanted it. He had not wanted to go to that direction, especially not with Mary… and especially not after last night.

He was still kind of messed up with the aftermath, his mind fuzzy around the edges. He was also still horrified by his own behaviour, some aspect of him couldn't believe he had really been so stupid. But although he despised his own desperation and hopelessness, they were still present enough that he was very aware why he had made that choice… and afraid he might make it again tonight.

"Yeah, I know you can't just go there and say 'hi, we need to talk about it.' You obviously need someone to initiate it and probe."

Now, he was getting really annoyed, did she just suggest he was relying and using other people like this? Like a dumb teenage girl in need of attention?

"No, I know you are not able to break this wall from the inside, and you don't want anybody to come in, but you want him to be in there. All I'm asking is that if he starts poking and asking how you feel and what is happening, that you don't shove him away. Just answer. Don't boycott his tries to built a John-sized door into that wall."

"I don't need help!" He felt dissected, how did she manage to answer to his thoughts? No one should see through him like this, it wasn't an option?

"I beg to differ, but that's not the point. The point is, that John needs help. And you could help him, you did it before. It would make him feel less bad if you'd gift him with trust. It would soothe the raw wound of being shut out before, would contradict his issues with having been left behind."

Sherlock frowned. She was right, when he recalled how John had looked the last view days… he didn't look good. He had made the same mistake he always accused other people of, that they see, but not observe.

"Hey," she stepped nearer, "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad. I'm just trying to make this easier on you both. We talked about this already on Friday, do you remember?"

"I'm not an imbecile."

"Didn't say you were. But did you actually understand it?"

"Yes."

"But you don't believe me? Or you just can't bring yourself to do it, to let him in? I know you have done this before, just do it again. You know how to do it, the basic setting is there, you just need to start executing. Just comply. Follow his lead."

"That is…"

"… making you feel exposed? Vulnerable?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"It's normal to feel vulnerable in this situation, John does too. But he's here nevertheless, fully aware that this could hurt him even more than your first suicide did."

"I don't do vulnerable."

"You know vulnerable is usually the state where you are _not_ in control, that is why one is vulnerable. 'Not doing it' is kind of nonsense, because if you could change it, you wouldn't be vulnerable at all. Being in control is the opposite. You feel exposed, so is he. If you don't protect each other's wounds now it might be to late. Luckily you're able to heal some of his, so do it for god's sake. Don't let him suffer any more. God, he needs you. You did the fall to save him, then finish it, save him, don't stop in the middle, because this is what Moriarty planned to do. Hurt you both, damage your friendship irreparably. Saving him includes getting this friendship back on line. If you don't you've stopped before the finish line and failed, although you were almost there and it was in reach."

Sherlock frowned once more. This was an odd way to see things, but she was right. His gaze flickered through the room, he ran through every potentiality of proving if her statement might be right or wrong. Finally the chances she was right turned out to be 78 to 16… wait, where were the missing percent?

"Do it thorough. Go on. Fix this," she interrupted his thoughts

"I don't know how to _fix_ things like this."

"Oh, Sherlock, that's what I'm trying to tell you, how to fix it, so just try, please, for all our sake. All you need to do is open up to him, don't shove him away. To get his full trust back you need to trust him first."

Sherlock swallowed, so John was not trusting him? He started to feel bad in the area of his solar plexus.

"No, don't get me wrong. He trusts you with a lot of things, but the one thing he can't trust you with, is to not hurt him again in the same way. Right now you are confirming that confiding in you with this particular topic is indeed the wrong decision. Don't make him feel like this. Allow him to get his confidence back."

Sherlock felt shame now. It crashed against his being like an acid yellow wave, making his mind stagger.

"You're his friend for god's sake, now start to behave like one."

"He doesn't deserve me as a friend. I'm not good for him."

"Oh, yes you are… overall."

"If I was he wouldn't have been on my bed with the violin and the…" he stopped when he saw her expression. What was it? Surprise?

"Hang on, when did that happen?"

She didn't know? John hadn't told her?

"What happened on your bed? When?" That was anxiety in her tone, wasn't it?

This was getting dangerous, he needed to stir out of this, he had blundered. Weren't married people supposed to know about each other, why didn't John tell her?

"He was really bad with grief after I was 'gone'. He cried."

"He probably did that on a daily basis, I assume. He was severely depressed and lost his best friend. What else happened?"

"I… He cried on _my_ bed," Sherlock tried to downplay it*.

"Well, that shows how deeply he was hurt, I guess," her voice was wavering a bit, probably in sympathy. "And it underlines what I'm trying to say, actually. You need to keep him from losing you again. He wouldn't survive it."

Was she was suspecting what had happened, or _did_ she know? Also, another totally different thing sprang to his mind: she hadn't asked how he knew.

Then Sherlock realised John might feel ashamed about that event, some things might need to stay private, even in a marriage. He tagged the memory with a 'private-label'. He needed to be careful what he revealed that might embarrass John.

"He's angry and it's his right," Sherlock tried to change the topic, now he felt quite ashamed about his weak moment last night. In hindsight he didn't know what had come over him and he was disgusted by his own behaviour, but would it be enough to stay away from this kind of escape?

"Yes, Sherlock, but there are nuances to anger."

"Obviously, the level is high enough that he decided to hit me."

"The anger had that level back then at the restaurant, but now it is simmering at quite a low level, so low most people wouldn't even know it's still there. And it's _that_ low, because he understands that your intention for staging the fall was to save him and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"I know. He told me."

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"I think he did and still does every day with his actions, but you don't see it. Also, he's hurting, and it's distracting him. And so are you. You two are ignoring the elephant in the room, aren't you? Dancing around it…"

"Sayings…"

"Sorry… It's a difficult topic and you're both eager to evade it. If you'd have listened he might have told you. If you had asked, he might have, too."

"I said repeatedly how sorry I was."

"Right, and that was good. If I may suggest something… As I said before, the best thing would be to actually ignore that small rest of the anger, but show clearly you are still sorry. Some things don't need to be said, but others do. Therefore I'll repeat: you are about to hurt John, quite intensely. I can't stand by and watch, so I'll say this exactly once: I'll never forgive you if you hurt him by taking drugs."

"What makes you think I…?"

"I threw out your stash."

"What?"

There was no denying then, or was she just bluffing?

"You slept like a baby the last night and I checked on you, the signs were quite obvious."

"You touched me?"

"I did. And I watched over you, making sure you didn't overdose."

He had no recollection of this, had she really or was she bluffing, waiting for him to reveal the facts himself?

"I'm willing to accept you were just so fucking bad with this you needed relief, but it was the one and only time, you can _not_ hurt John like this on top of everything else. It would shove him over the edge."

"You threw out my…?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I did! Are you actually listening? Don't you dare to take anything else again. John is suffering enough, no need to shove him into another crisis. I swear I'll kick your arse twenty times an hour if that is what you need to understand that you are digging his grave behaving like this. So get a grip and accept his help. If I ever see you take anything else I will tell him."

"Are you blackmailing me, now? So, what am I supposed to do?" his voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Maybe."

"Asking me to stay out of your beautifully domestic bliss? Threatening to tell him? To keep a distance? That was actually the point," he spit.

"Shit," the expression on her face showed that this hadn't been at all what she had aimed at. "No! I want you to be good to John, be a good friend. I want you to fix this friendship! He loves you like a brother and there is exactly one way to solve this situation, Sherlock."

"And what would that be?"

"You tell him."

"What?" he laughed scornfully, "Why would I do that?"

"To demonstrate trust and care… and receive help. He needs to know you want his help," her voice in contrast stayed calm and patient.

"I think I have clearly behaved in a way…"

"No, Sherlock, no! You didn't! He received that you are shoving him away, and frankly, I receive the same."

"It's hardly my fault you aren't willing to listen."

"Okay," she raised her hands in surrender. "You know what? I underestimated how lost you are with this. I'll tell you in detail, and you listen, because this obviously was perceived wrong: He needs you to _ask_ him for help."

"I did," Sherlock's tone softened a bit.

"No you didn't, not with clear words at least."

"He should know without words."

"He does, but knowing and being asked is a very large difference. He needs to be _asked_, because that is what responsible adults do, asking for consent."

"That's ridiculous."

"Now, there's quite a fine line between those two."

"But asking is… awkward and against the deeper…" he stopped, not knowing how to put this. Had no one understood that he already did? Not with words, but… he was sure his actions had shown that clearly, until a few days ago at least.

The idea to have to ask for it nagged at his trust, it was graceless and degrading… The fact that it was necessary to say it out loud in contrast to be understood without words was like a new wall building up, one that he thought they had torn down long ago.

Why the unnecessary ritual? He felt misunderstood and his ability to communicate compromised.

"Having to talk about this takes the last dignity I have away," he managed to put his thoughts into words roughly, and saw finally understanding dawn on her face, accompanied by quite a bit of shocked surprise.

"Oh,… I… guess I'm not sure I know what you mean, but John said something similar a few months ago about Ella… Okay… In this case asking is more than a ritual, he already tries to help you and give you what you need, you know that?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"That's why he is here, Sherlock."

"Yes."

"He's trying to give to you what you need."

"Yes."

"He's offering, but you need to officially accept." It was not really what she thought was needed, but close enough. "You need to signal your…"

"…surrender."

"No, you're not surrendering, you are accepting an offer, admitting you need something."

"Same difference."

"No, not for him. If you tell him you need his help it is the biggest offer of friendship you can make, the most profound proof of trust that you could give him."

When he just stared at her she frowned.

"Do you understand that?"

"No… Maybe."

"Well, than just store the information and do it. Go out there and tell him you took the morphine because you were desperate and that you're at the end of your tether and need help."

So she _knew_, was not bluffing, otherwise she wouldn't have known it was morphine.

"And to eat humble pie will speed up being forgiven," she added.

"You are telling me he'll forgive me? I doubt that."

"Tell him honestly what and why and when… and that you can't do this alone."

"Are you suggesting to pull at his heartstrings? I won't."

"Certainly not… I'm telling you to trust him, and his care and his affection. It's not that you actually really need to do something, just make the first step, then follow where he leads, just trust him."

"I…."

"You don't need to do this immediately, you probably need some time to wrap your mind around this, but I'll not wait forever. There is a point where I will tell him, if you don't. If I get the impression you don't care to do it, I will."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged. This was awkward. He felt misunderstood and she was using a childish provocation, but he realised she probably did because she felt out of options and was desperate, too.

"Just tell him about the morphine, say you're sorry and need help. He will take over, you just have to follow. Just do it, Sherlock," she repeated.

Sherlock hesitated, he doubted this was wise, John would probably punch him and yell. But on the other hand, he might as well try it, nothing to lose any longer, she was right.

"Please," she whispered… She was begging? This kind of shocked him, she wasn't the type… but it underlined the state of desperation everyone here was in. He looked down, it was the slightest bit of showing the beginning of agreeing, careful and not really sure yet, but she must have received he understood her.

She stepped closer to him and wrapped her arm around him. "You can do this," then vanished down the stairs with a laundry basket, giving him space.

….

* * *

….

_A/N:_

_*This refers to the events of 'Chapter 23' in the first part of this story: Lessons in Friendship 8. It might be good to read it in case you haven't, to understand what's happening here._

_._

_Please review if you like my story. _

_Thank you for reading_


	25. Chapter 25

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Writing is quite hard for me at the moment, therefore the delay, but some things are just a bit too close to home… Sorry for the delay, but life sucks a lot right now and I just couldn't manage to concentrate on writing or any positive thoughts at all. _

_Thanks to anyone who's still out there reading this. You are great! Thank you for staying with me. _

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 25**

**Tuesday evening**

Mary came down the stairs when John entered through the front door.

"Let's get some groceries," she suggested.

"Let me say 'hallo' upstairs and then we can go. But…"

"No, John, wait, wait," she grabbed his sleeve as he stepped onto the first steps. "I think I might have just kicked his ass quite hard, so… let him have some time to let this sink in… and whatever you do, if he _does_ give you the slightest hint of opening up… approve it, respond, listen carefully…"

She dragged him out of the front door.

"Bloody hell, what did you do?" he wanted to know, his tone alarmed.

"I told him what I think. It was a bit like explaining emotions to a child, you were right, he sometimes just needs an explanation. Err… I feel a bit awkward about it, but hope my direct approach has educational value. I intentionally lost patience and _scolded_ him for being a bad friend."

They headed for the car, which John had just parked a few steps away. They wouldn't have the same luck later.

"Let's go by foot, I don't have the energy to search for a parking space later."

"Okay," she closed her jacket, it was quite cold and it smelled as if might freeze again tonight.

"Do I have to watch the tablet while we are gone… and all night?" John asked.

"No. I kept a neutral tone. And when I went downstairs he was 'thinking', we shouldn't take too long, though."

"How does scolding and neutral happen at once?"

"That's the trick that should make it work," she grinned while they headed down the street.

"Really? How did you manage it?"

"Practise."

"I'm not sure relying on a neutral tone works with Sherlock. He's very good reading between the lines, even when it comes to emotional stuff. Though he doesn't read with an emotional mindset his clues are surprisingly accurate sometimes… and sometimes surprisingly stupid."

"What? That's a contradiction in itself," she laughed.

"Not really… not with Sherlock… He kind of manages to stir through emotional things with his own logic, often failing, but that routine malfunctions not often enough so one could say it doesn't work at all. It works… sometimes, and sometimes it doesn't. It's that database thing. He just memorises what is right and what is wrong, doesn't make the decision with emotions, but with what he has stored. Usually he's willing to add new data, but not from any source. I'm glad he seems to trust you as a reliable one."

"Seems he does. Hope he does with this, too."

"Tell me."

"Not now, it was a bit frustrating, arguing in a circle. We had a similar conversation before. Long story short: I told him you both need each other's help and he needs to accept yours."

"All right… So I need to understand every little sign of him showing he does."

"Yes, let's get some cake, I need comfort food for dinner."

"Oh god, his eating habits are rubbing off on you. He did that in the past sometimes, eating cake for dinner. But maybe that was because the case was finished and it was the first food available."

Mary giggled. "Or maybe we should get some ice cream. Does he eat that?"

"I don't know… I have never seen it."

"That's odd."

"No, it isn't. That's Sherlock."

"You lived with him for two years and have never bought ice cream?"

"No."

"I think that's odd, too. Why didn't you? I think we need to do an experiment."

"Don't bombard him with too many things normal people do, he'll shut you out if you overdo it. The way he's behaving in the last days… I wonder why he hasn't yet thrown out us or sought refuge somewhere else. He sometimes did that in the past… vanished for a few days, I mean. I don't want that happening, so let's be a bit more careful not to push him too far."

"Seriously, John… I think he needs a few pushes…. Careful ones, ones that he understands are caring."

"He doesn't like being cared for… and he'll flee if it gets too much."

"I know. But the conversation we had earlier also revealed a few things he needs… he can't ask for."

"And what might that be?"

"Trust me with this."

"He told you?"

"No, not really, but I saw. But it's too diffuse to put it into words, it's more like going with my guts. What flavour do you think he'd like?"

John rolled his eyes.

.

Sherlock was on the sofa, thinking, when they came back, not lying down but sitting hunched over, his elbows rest on his knees, his fingertips pressed together and his fingers spread wide. He had changed into a dress shirt and some of his better trousers. What was a bit unnerving was, that he remained silent and didn't speak, didn't react and neither ate nor participated in anything they offered.

He seemed absent, lay down about an hour after their return, at which point he seemed a bit more relaxed.

But when John left his hearing distance he sat up again to be able to listen better, even closed his eyes. Mary internally raised her eyebrows about that, did he himself classified this as another danger night and therefore tried to compensate like this?

When John announced he'd go to bed and vanished into the bathroom the doorbell's ring surprised them.

Mary almost let her laptop slip when Sherlock jumped up from the couch and yelled "Use the key!" down the stairway in a loudness that might have woken half of Baker Street.

He had his phone out and was typing a text when someone unlocked the front door and came up the stairs.

"What's happening?" John came out of the bathroom, clad in his pyjama bottoms but still in his shirt and jumper.

"Another woman is missing," Sherlock said when Lestrade entered the living room, who raised both eyebrows.

"Correct," he agreed

"Shit," John commented.

"I'm on my way to her flat share, want to come?"

Sherlock did not respond, just headed into his room, passing John on the way, who was still standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Can you please put on some trousers," Sherlock mumbled.

Now John raised his eyebrows, that was an invitation to come with him? He looked after Sherlock, then back at Lestrade, who rolled his eyes.

"Talking's not worth the effort today?" the DI suggested, low enough to be overheard by Sherlock.

"Not really," John realised, "Back in a minute, Greg," he hurried up the stairs while Mary and the DI exchanged greetings. Five minutes later they were all in Lestrade's car.

.

Sherlock minutely inspected the flat, but there was nothing out of order. The roommate, her name was Miranda, had been home all day and the missing girl had just not come home. There were also no odd events in the past days or new contacts. The best friend and flatmate explained to them she had had a funny encounter herself a week ago, but they all agreed it didn't fit into the behaviour of the perpetrator so far. Also, she told them a gentleman had approached her at a bar where she had been with friends with a rose and asked her to have dinner with him. She feared a prank and her friends laughed at the odd event so she refused and the man had vanished. The description also didn't fit to their suspect, except height and young looking, but when shown the sketches she was absolutely sure he had not looked anything similar to them. So they let it go.

Sherlock was his usual rude self and some of his questions embarrassed her, which he either didn't care about or just stored away, as usual.

When he finally asked "Where you two a couple?" she blushed.

"Sherlock…"

"What? This might be important."

"No. She's just my best friend."

"But you are… not heterosexual," Sherlock continued a bit more tactfully.

"Not exactly, no," she answered honestly.

"What if he planned to take her and then found that out and took the other girl instead?" Sherlock thought aloud.

John saw tears pooling in Miranda's eyes, "Timing, Sherlock!"

"Sorry," Sherlock said absentmindedly, clearly not sorry at all.

The girl put up a brave front and gulped her fears down, then answered all their questions and showed them the computers and other equipment. She had clearly heard of the consulting detective and his blogger, but tried not to let it and her curiosity show.

Even before John had the feeling they had gathered enough information Sherlock headed for the front door and declared he was finished. Lestrade, John and a young police man followed, _after_ they had thanked the girl.

"Greg, how about you come for a beer later and we discuss this?" John suggested.

"I'm free now, the young fellow will bring the collected evidence back to Scotland Yard and Sally will do some more background checks and footwork. I just need a few minutes on the phone, then we can go. If Sherlock thinks this is boring and probably not related to our case I doubt he'll bother investigating. Let me send the officer off with the evidence, then let's go back to Baker Street…"

Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's car, typing on his phone when they reached it. It had started to rain and they hurried to get inside.

"The weather might get nasty," Lestrade wrinkled his nose.

"Mycroft will meet us at 221b," Sherlock simply stated.

"Are you inviting me for a beer, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked in a slightly teasing tone, knowing about the bottles Sherlock had bought earlier, that were still untouched in the fridge.

"Yes," Sherlock answered without looking up.

.

Later, at home, they gathered around the coffee table, with beer and tea. Everybody except Sherlock was seated, Lestrade and Mary on the sofa and John on a kitchen chair opposite of them, his laptop on his knees and his beer next to him at the dinner table, among the chaos of files and evidence pictures and notes. The consulting detective however had changed and was running up and down the room in his blue damaged old dressing gown.* He was broadcasting tension and John was quite irritated about the sudden mood change.

"This is related," he murmured while the others were still deep into small talk. Sherlock had refused tea and beer and anything else.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"This is related, but how!"

"Did I get something wrong? At the flat I thought you were convinced this wasn't."

"What made you think that?"

"I don't know, your disinterest, the lack of similarities."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut, the message was quite clear.

"Could you think out loud, so that us stupid bystanders understand what's happening?" Mary teased, smiling up at him.

When he ignored her and continued to run up and down the room she stood up and vanished into the kitchen.

"I'll not explain this twice," he murmured finally, but Mary was out of hearing range by then.

"Twice?" John echoed.

That moment steps could be heard on the stairs and John was immediately alarmed.

Mrs Hudson had gone to bed hours ago, but the fact that Sherlock stayed absolutely calm made it clear that it must be Mycroft. Moments later there was a soft knock on the living room door and the older Holmes entered without waiting for an answer.

"The colonel is still keeping his silence?" Sherlock greeted him.

"Yes."

Mycroft nodded towards Lestrade and John, "Evening."

"Night would be more appropriate," Lestrade yawned.

"We restored some of the data Alexander deleted, among them were several records of attendance that proved Ian Alexander had participated in… something. Evidence that the man had two sons… and that one of them had signed in for military duty," Mycroft informed without further introductions.

"What happened to him?" John wanted to know.

"We don't really know, but except that he was thrown out. It was tiny reports or lists he tried to delete. Sheer luck we were able restore some, he was thorough. Deleted entry logs, renamed documents and changed data-types, finally moved them to wrong directories," Mycroft sat down on the place Mary had vacated a few moments earlier.

"Thrown out?"

"Dishonourably discharged, we don't know why yet."

Sherlock continued to move back and forth through the room, not bothering to be quiet.

"Alexander is still refusing to talk, doesn't even say a word. He's polite, but not saying anything more than empty phrases," Mycroft continued.

"Politician," Sherlock hissed.

"With some knowledge about law," Lestrade assumed.

"I want to interrogate him myself," Sherlock stated.

"No," the DI refused, which made Sherlock's pacing even more frantic.

"Oh, for god's sake, why not?!" he burst out, making another snappy turn in between the two armchairs, then headed towards the sofa again.

"So, we let him go free and observe him. See what he does, he'll lead us there," Sherlock then said in a slow voice.

"You really think he's that stupid?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, if I _am_ correct his son is the murderer and he's the one trying to hide his crimes. He'll be in delicate situation with another woman missing. We need to make sure he gets the news… maybe let him go free _because_ it's clear he's not the villain since he was in custody when another woman disappeared… that is… if your sergeants didn't reveal to him that this was our suspicion in the first place."

"It was?" Mary asked, returning back to the group.

"Yes, of course."

"Hey, I don't know half the facts, sum it up for me," she smiled at him and shoved a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands.

The detective moved to his armchair and sat down, balancing the fine china cup and the saucer expertly while he lifted his feet onto the seat. Then started summarising the case for her, which also was a good thing for everybody else, too, since the numerable victims and evidence varied greatly and Sherlock seemed to be the only one who hadn't lost track of the large amount of it, this became at least clear to John as he listened. Sherlock's mind was as structured and clear as ever with the facts, just deducing things seemed to be slower than normal. At least he appeared less unconcentrated and less distracted as he had seemed for days now.

The detective's monologue lasted almost half an hour and was interrupted by brief remarks from John and Lestrade. Mycroft listened carefully, staring at the floor, it surprised John, that he took his time to listen to this in the middle of the night, but then he realised the older Holmes was waiting for something... or maybe just assessing his brother's state of mind.

Sherlock was just explaining that in every case the internet or a device with which one could access it played a role, but that up to date no one was able to find the suspects online trail, which was quite odd, or he was just very clever hiding his existence. Mycroft's phone rang and interrupted him.

Everybody listened and heard him say "Yes," or asking for further details, when the older Holmes finally hung up he explained the conversation.

"Our suspect dropped out of military early during basic training, when he reapplied, he was refused, not suitable."

"What does that mean?" Mary asked.

"We don't know yet, but there are hints he behaved inappropriately on several occasions.

At some point later he worked as a janitor or technician, changed jobs fast, never stayed long."

"Probably until everyone was freaked out with his behaviour?" John guessed.

"Probably," Mycroft affirmed, "the records are surprisingly fragmentary, our computer specialist had quite a lot of fun I was told."

"Continue," Sherlock urged.

"No one knows where he is, where he lives, what he does, he vanished. The last record we have is a A&amp;E visit after a fight, that was five years ago. He managed to drop off the face of the earth. Our specialists would love to 'interview' him."

Sherlock smiled artificially.

"So, Sherlock is right, keeping a close eye on the colonel is the only way to get to his son," John said.

"How did he find out his son was doing this?" Lestrade asked.

"That's a good question. He removed most of the traces that proved he had a second son from his home, Ian hasn't lived there in years, most likely moved out as a teenager, or at the latest when the military refused him… He obviously has not direct contact to his son."

"How is that obvious?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"So, how _does_ he know?"

"Maybe he doesn't. Or maybe he's stalking him, too."

"Observing someone who is observing someone else might be quite a challenge," Lestrade's fingers moved over his lower lips, in concentration.

"Yes, and it should neither include Sherlock nor the doctor, since our suspect already knows what they look like."

"Don't be ridiculous, we can manage to use a disguise," Sherlock huffed. "Besides, we need to monitor the flat, too."

"You think he'll use it the same way, even if the flatmate lives there?"

"No, I think he's escalating."

"Really?"

"However, he'll do this one different than the ones before, either he plans to include her, because he needs more of… something, or he doesn't plan to return to her flat. No matter how, either choosing _her_ or the double event were the main ambition."

"So we take the flatmate into protective custody?" Lestrade fetched out his notepad and started to write things down.

"No, that would broadcast we're on his heels much to loudly," Sherlock stared down at the mug, holding it with both hands now, "But she should have a hidden transmitter or mini panic button or something, I'm sure Mycroft can get something for her."

Mycroft forced a smile, "Of course. Key chain?"

"Logical choice, since if he's after her, he is also after their location and therefore would keep the keys," Sherlock explained, "The keys…" his head jerked upwards and he squinched his eyes shut.

"What about the keys?" Mary asked, but Sherlock didn't react.

The detectives face was a grimace and Mary and Lestrade went immediately into an high alert state.

"Sherlock?" John asked softly and stood up slowly.

"What's happening?" Lestrade asked, "Is he having a flashback or something?"

"No… I think he has just found something and is cross checking every tiny bit of information about the keys on this case."

"So he's not in distress?" Mary asked, not sure to believe it, because Sherlock clearly looked like it.

"He probably is somewhere in the mind palace where he stored the information about the case," Mycroft explained, "This might take a while. I might as well return to my bed."

John giggled, he had never heard Mycroft say something this personal ever before, maybe he was even surprised the man owned a bed. An irritated look from both, Mary and Mycroft stopped him.

"Sorry. I'm just overjoyed he's doing this again," and he was, god, he was!

He stepped closer to make sure Sherlock was, in fact, okay.

The other man's face had relaxed a bit and he was neither breathing too fast nor sweating. Good sings that Mycroft was correct.

"Text me if he finds something interesting," Mycroft stood up and said his goodbyes, a minute later he was gone.

"Greg, another beer?"

"If I drink one more I'll have to kip on your couch and I'm not sure that's a good idea."

John smiled.

"Well, night's almost over anyway, might want to consider it."

"What time is it?"

"Where's your watch?"

"Got damaged two nights ago."

"Oh, arduous case?"

"No, stupid one. Hand to hand fight at a small fountain, well, a lot of people were soaked afterwards, and it was fucking freezing!"

This made all three of them laugh, Sherlock was oblivious to all of it.

"Three thirty," Mary finally informed him.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"God, I'm really considering hijacking Sherlock's bed," Lestrade admitted. "You have to work tomorrow?" he asked John.

"Afternoon shift," the doctor answered, then looked at his future wife. "She, too. You?"

"Eight," Lestrade grimaced.

John and Mary winced simultaneously I'm sympathy.

"Though I might come in a bit later for having been out all night, but if…"

He had no chance to finish the sentence because Sherlock suddenly spun around and clapped his hands, which made everyone jump in surprise.

"The keys!" he exclaimed loudly.

"What about them?" the doctor asked.

"Where did you get Sandra Herman's keys?"

"From the person that alerted us to her disappearance," Lestrade answered.

"Her key chain wasn't found, the suspect left with it…. Where did you get the other victims keys?"

"Friends, family, relatives… But we found the victim's key chains, too."

"And did you actually test if the keys to the front doors of their living quarters _was_ on the key chain?"

"Shit. Probably not, the key chains were identified and that was probably it."

"We need to test it!"

"What for?"

"He keeps them as a trophy!"

"If you already know that, why test it?"

"Because it's only a theory."

"And what would happen if we knew they were?"

"Er… we'd know, of course," Sherlock was getting unnerved.

"Yeah, obviously, but what good would that do, mate?" Lestrade tried to soothe.

"I have no intention to explain all thirty-three theories to you that might fit… But maybe it is only important to be aware that he might fetch the latest victim's flatmate or enter her flat with the keys he has from the first girl. And that he might change locations… would be logical over all after the media attention the case got… where's Mycroft?"

"Went home."

"Arrange that the girl is under constant surveillance or even in protective custody… though the later would do us no good in finding the killer."

"Are you suggesting we use her as a bait?" John sounded horrified.

"Yes."

"Not an option!" Lestrade said.

"Fine, then make the call to take her somewhere safe, I'm quite sure he's changing his course of action, just not in what way."

Lestrade stood up, phone already at his ear, then stepped into the kitchen to talk to someone.

Sherlock started ignoring the company again.

Finally Lestrade called a cab and was gone half an hour later, since there was nothing more to do for the moment. The girl was relatively safe and he needed some sleep.

John finally managed to drag Sherlock towards his bed and convince him to lie down. Sherlock was quite tired and did not fight him, just rolled onto his side fully clothed and before John was sure what was happening his breathing had deepened.

The doctor raised his brows and left after he was sure Sherlock had drifted off.

…

* * *

….

_*To find out how Sherlock damaged the blue dressing gown read the first part of this story, where Sherlock has refused to play the violin for a long time and when he finally does it is a bit destructive to his wardrobes and the interior. _

_Since there was this babysitting remark in TSoT and the fact that Sherlock had accepted Mary into 221b and was getting along with her very well I thought this needed some fundament, this is why I wrote Mary the way she is here._

_Thank you for reading._

_Please review._


	26. Chapter 26

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thanks to all of my readers who gifted me with feedback! Great to know you are still there :)_

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**Chapter 26**

**Wednesday**

They slept in the next morning, and in the early afternoon John and Mary went to work. Sherlock stayed under the watchful eyes of Mrs Hudson. Neither John nor Mary left easily, though John still didn't know why Mary seemed almost more nervous about it as he was himself.

Shortly after the couple had left Mrs Hudson prepared tea and headed upstairs, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. She gently shoved the door to his room open a bit and peered in. Sherlock was deeply asleep and the landlady decided to retreat and come back again later.

The second time she entered the upstairs flat she found Sherlock typing and reviewing case notes. He looked so much like he used to and she sighed and stepped closer.

"How are you doing, dear?" she asked, putting the tray down on top of the mess that was the dining table and putting her hand on his shoulder.

He didn't react.

"Tea?"

"Yes," he answered and she poured him a cup.

"It's so nice to have John and Mary here. Brings life back to the house, I really missed you!" She hugged him sideways, ignoring his typing.

He grunted, but neither pulled away nor stopped typing. She giggled.

"Sherlock, it would be kind to _not_ ignore me. Drink some tea."

"I'm not ignoring you, I'm rather not actively participating in sentimental behaviour. My passiveness should be suffice to signal I do you the favour to endure it… for your sake."

"Oh, well, thank you Sherlock, that is really nice of you," her tone only carried a hint of sarcasm, but also the praising of a child that was working on something and making almost no progress. She poured sugar in his cup and stirred, then closed the lit of the laptop, giving him only enough time to pull his fingers back in time.

He stared up at her, unnerved.

"Drink some tea," she suggested, smiling innocently at him.

"Fine!" he pouted and accepted the cup.

At the surgery Mary became more nervous about leaving Sherlock out of sight than John. Though they had taken the tablet with them, it stayed with her, John was too busy listening to the everyday miseries of his patients to keep an eye on the detective anyway.

Mrs Hudson could be seen managing to stay with Sherlock for quite some time, but finally Sherlock grew tired of her small talk and shoved her physically out of the door.

This was the point when Mary started to think about trying to get home… Gosh, she had started to feel home at 221b, she realised.

But something needed to change, and soon. She'd never forgive herself if Sherlock _really_ started using again and she knew and didn't stop him. Up to now she hadn't told John about the morphine, but she was aware she needed to set herself a deadline for this if Sherlock didn't. So getting home earlier was the only course of action, Sherlock couldn't be left alone for too long.

The afternoon was quiet and she managed to convinced one of the other nurses that something urgent had come up and she was needed at home.

An hour later she was back at Baker Street, two hours before the official ending of her shift.

Sherlock was still reviewing case facts and ignored her arrival and the pastries she had brought, that was until almost an hour later, when she had settled down with her current book on the sofa under a blanket.

He suddenly started to ask her what she thought about this fact or that behaviour. At first she raised her eyebrows internally but then understood her opinion was actually valued.

The day before she had seen John and Sherlock interact when talking about the case, it had been exhilarating, John was different since Sherlock's return, not only for the worse, but in some aspects for the better. He was of course angry and devastated and shocked, but solving cases and interacting with the detective did him good overall.

John seemed less depressed when they were investigating, less wound up. She found it difficult to grasp, but realised something was starting to get back to balance. The way Sherlock counterbalanced John was amazing.

Last night she had first seen it clearly. Subtle changes, but she had never seen her future husband with so much energy. Only now she began to understand what John must have been like before Sherlock's death. It made her heart heavy guessing how much he must have been changed by that.

She had only known him with the shadow of loss hovering over him, which now was hopefully starting to dissolve. The things she loved about John seemed to blossom, something was starting to lift from her spouse's soul. Though it was overshadowed by Sherlock's current state it was visible last night, and before, when John had called her and told her about the case during the nights she had been away.

He had definitely missed solving cases, more than he was ready to admit, she suddenly understood why John had punched Sherlock so hard the third time. She had assumed before because it was because it was an insult that Sherlock thought he hadn't missed it, but now understood it was much more than that.

John had once told her than Sherlock's suicide had almost killed him, when they had spoken about Sherlock for the first time, which was quite some time after they had started dating, and back then she had thought is was just a matter of phrasing, but now it dawned on her that this might have been more literal than she had thought. She was already worried about John but this thought made her even more uneasy.

During the past days she understood more and more what John had lost. She was discovering glimpses of a new side of John and she really liked it!

In the past a part of her had wondered if she'd have hated the egoistic detective when John spoke about him and how he had behaved.

But now, that she had seen how Sherlock really was, … quite different than what one might guess from reports, divergent from what she had expected.

Sherlock _was_ often unaware of his rude behaviour, his ability to focus on a problem and really leave everything else behind seemed rude, though it wasn't. On one hand his cluelessness woke a protective instinct in her, though on the other she had never met somebody who seemed so very independent and capable of surviving.

John had underlined quite often that most people developed the feeling of dislike, especially when they knew Sherlock only superficially… But now she watched Sherlock's stoic stiff posture, who continued to ask something now and then, without looking up at her, deep in thoughts.

She had been really granted access, though the longer this lasted the more determined she became that she needed to talk to John about her stay. She was really alleviated she was accepted here, but something was not right. She was not rejected but taken in, and it still surprised her a bit. Maybe not including her was not even an option for Sherlock, he had asked if she was an extension of John or something like that, hadn't he? She had never dreamed of thinking about a relationship this way. It felt strange, kind of 'adopted'. She didn't know if she even earned allowance or if Sherlock was just letting her in because of John. Of course John had told her how Sherlock had behaved with his former girlfriends and the disasters that followed.

While pretending to read her book and answer a question about romances and human behaviour and female thinking she tried to figure out how to continue this.

.

"John, stop waiting for him to reject me. He won't," she started the topic when they were preparing for the night. God, Sherlock war really rubbing off on her, dropping bombs like this wasn't her thing usually, sure, she was quite direct and all, but not like this.

"What makes you so sure?… and what if you decide you don't like him?" John was into it immediately, which showed her he had giving this topic quite a lot of thoughts.

Sherlock was on stakeout with Lestrade, who had informed John that this was a good opportunity for the couple to have some alone-time and catch up with much needed sleep. John had briefly told the DI about the flashback and dissociative episode Sherlock had had earlier and what to do in case something like that happened again.

"John… somebody _you _love like a brother out of free will can not be that bad…"

"It's not… It's more the ignorance that drives people away, the egoistic things, that he only does what he thinks is needed and isn't aware of other people's needs, most people can't deal with that, although it is not meant to be selfish or mean, he seems to be just blind about it sometimes and it pisses people off."

"Yeah, I know. Well, I'll try to develop a blindness for his blind spots then," she smiled and embraced him.

"Be warned, I tried that, too, but it got me pissed of nevertheless sometimes."

"I know, that's totally normal. Probably as much as he is pissed off about human nature sometimes."

"Yeah…"

"Besides I think he has learned a lot, to what I have seen of his demeanour up to now I see that he is honestly trying to fix that, particularly considering you. He is listening to your needs."

"Bit late, but yes, he is."

"John, don't get me wrong, what I am saying now might sound harsh, but… Maybe it was not a good idea to add me to the mix… at least not this soon. Maybe it was to early."

"No."

"You don't want that to be not true, but maybe you both need a bit more time to… adjust."

"No!" he let go of her.

"It's very nice of you to contradict me, but I think we should reduce my staying over here to the weekends."

"No."

"John, if you really want to help make him better you should concentrate on only that, not on me and how I am coping with his behaviour and him with mine. It adds stress to something that is already overstressed."

"I don't want you to feel shut out."

"I won't. He needs you more than I do at the moment."

"And I want him to understand that you are important to me."

"He already got that. He has accepted me. He just has not the energy to… learn… me… Sorry, I don't know how to put it… Me being here takes energy to adjust and learn new ways and so on, which he doesn't have. He needs _familiar_ and _safe_ at the moment - more than anything - which has nothing to do with not wanting me here. It's just too much. I'll stay at home for four or five nights a week. It will be okay."

"I…" John stammered, looking lost.

"It's not that he doesn't want me here, he's just overwhelmed by all the changes and I'm a _significant_ change. I think he wants to accept me, maybe even only for your sake - we'll find out if he really wants it for _my_ sake - but he's unable to cope with too much change right now. And changing his living situation, his safe place, is definitely a major thing. I think we should give him a pause, make sure his safe haven is exactly that, safe. Which means you and him and integrating old times as much as possible."

She could see he was partially horrified but shared some aspects of her opinion.

"He is quite possessive, I can't let him think that…"

"He has understood that I think. I even think he is holding back because he thinks after what he did he has no right to take your offered… services."

"Yeah, but this might send the wrong signal."

"No, he knows he has to share you. I don't really see too much possessiveness at the moment. I will inform you both if I do."

John sighed.

"Hey, I love you. I just try to do the right thing for all of us."

"I… I know," John sighed. "I love you." John seemed to be quite moved about this, he kissed her.

.

Thursday passed in a similar matter. Sherlock spend the night on stakeout and John and Mary had time to catch up with their sleep. During the day Sherlock slept and Mrs Hudson was determined to behave in a manner that would not lead to Sherlock throw her out. So she kept conversations light and busied herself with cleaning the flat as silent as possible.

Mary had bought a large bag of fresh ginger and told her if she was bored she could try to make Sherlock peel it. She tried to coax him into helping her with the domestic stuff, arguing that he needed to learn it to cope with it better because John was no longer living here doing everything for him and she was a landlady, not the maid.

Sherlock was not amused. When she removed his experiment equipment from the table he was sitting on, he finally exploded, threw several petri dishes into the kitchen wall. The shards rained down behind the stove and the front of a counter.

"Sherlock Holmes! Get a grip and help me peel this!" she yelled at him.

He froze, he had never heard her yell… well, not like this! She had scolded him or uttered her disapproval, but this sounded like… an angry mother.

She shoved a kitchen knife and two plates onto the table in front of him, taking away the microscope. She knew exactly where to held the heavy object and how to balance it, proof of how often she had moved it in the past. After she had wiped the table in front of Sherlock she placed an old sheet of newspaper in front of him.

"I need this peeled."

"Who put you up to this?"

"No one, I want to bake ginger bread. It's not long until Christmas, you know. And you need to think of something else than the case for a moment anyway."

"This is ridiculous, I don't need a babysitter and I don't need domestic bliss and I don't want to be mollycoddled and pitied!" he yelled and with an angry movement he shoved two Erlenmeyer flasks off the table, they landed on the floor, in the hallway to the bathroom, one broke, but the other just bounced, high quality lab equipment.

When he tried to stand up she grasped his shoulders, tightly.

"Young man! This is neither pity nor mollycoddling. This is freeing your mind of ballast by doing simple, stupid, mechanical tasks. Helped me whenever I was quite depressed… being productive in one way or another. So start peeling."

She put the knife and a large ginger root in front of him with a loud bang, Sherlock flinched.

When she turned around and filled the kettle the broken glass on the ground made ugly noises, she then placed a large mug of tea next to the other items in front of him.

She ignored the shards, which finally made him switch back out of his anger, he was more busy with wondering what had gone wrong now. She did not do such things. She'd clean away the mess, not step into it. He narrowed his eyes, observing her back. The linoleum was unlikely to get severely damaged by small shards of glass, but the grinding noise was unnerving.

He started peeling, his mind busy with what was happening here right now. What had he done wrong? He had thrown things before, she had not reacted like this.

When she turned around again, another knife and a bowl of potatoes in her hand he had just finished the first small element he had broken off the root.

"You can do much better, you're wasting too much of it," she went on, not looking at him. "Don't think that I will let you get away with playing clumsy or wasting it," she warned.

She was really angry.

Sherlock spend the rest of John's time away with recollecting every word they had spoken during the past week, in the attempt to find out what was getting to her so much.

…

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…

_A/N_

_Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism welcome._


	27. Chapter 27

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_As I have done before, in this chapter there is a lot of jumping between Sherlock's and John's perspective. The dot marks the change of perspective though the conversations continues without interruption, hope this is not too irritating._

_This and the following chapter were originally one piece, and they were the first chapter for this story I actually wrote over a year ago._

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**Chapter 27**

**Friday morning - Part 1**

John was sitting in the living room having breakfast when Sherlock joined him with a cup of tea, it was actually nice to repeat this ritual they had done when they both had lived at 221b together. Sherlock had wished for those every time he had his morning tea alone in a hotel or an dark hiding place, but even though he should be enjoying the occasion the muddy taste of 'probably a sporadic event in the future' was tinting the experience in blue grey chagrin. Things would never be the same. Something was gone.

"You're still in the newspapers about the terrorist attack. Mostly positive feedback…. Though this article mentions the words fraud and liar a bit too often for my liking." John murmured, turning the pages of one of the daily papers.

"What are they suspecting now? That I'm a terrorist, and uncover terrorist networks to distract from my _own_ terrorist-plans? Well, that would at least be something new. Bet I would make a good fake-terrorist," he knew his voice carried a mixture of sarcasm and bitter amusement.

He sipped at his tea, "They are just dumb newspapers… One thing I actually agree with Moriarty, named them Fairy tales. There will always be people calling me a liar. Is that still getting to you?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I still don't really get it," Sherlock admitted.

"You want to tell me if they'd call _me…_ let's say… er… a thief, and try to throw me in jail for that, making false accusations, _you_ wouldn't be offended?"

Sherlock tried to imagine John being arrested for something he hadn't done. It indeed felt … different from… yeah, what?… It felt… like an urge… the need to make things right.

"Oh… well, yes I guess, that would make me… uneasy… or something."

John looked as if he had not thought it possible that Sherlock actually understood the example.

In contrast to back then, when they had this discussion for the first time shortly before _the Fall_, he had not understood it at all, he had suggested John was afraid that the accusations might rub off on him. Normal people often did that, assuming a bad reputation would jump over to themselves from somebody they were in contact with, it was a well known phenomenon. That day John had been angry about the accusation though Sherlock had not found out why… now he just had, partially at least, today the example was easy to understand.

Great! Brain ping time: two years. But there was another factor…

"So why don't you understand that it makes _me_ uneasy if they call _you_ a fraud?" John interrupted his thoughts.

"Because it's _me_ being accused. None cares about the freak. Waste of time," it least that he knew.

.

John frowned, where was that insight coming from? He gulped. Was Sherlock trying to provoke something or was this really his attitude about himself? The utterance would fit to his recent depressive behaviour.

"Please, just don't tell yourself a fraud as a joke," John begged.

"Oh, you are telling me you can't stand me make any remarks about that topic? I was just… joking," Sherlock suggested.

"Bad one, really."

"I didn't mean anything by that, it was just a remark."

"Sherlock, you never waste a breath to say things you don't mean," John was getting frustrated, Sherlock seldom joked and was not really good at it, often he did it to cover things up.

"In fact I do that a lot. All those useless social interaction that you taught me, to be polite with strangers who mean nothing to me? What about those? Those are useless things I waste my breath for."

"I taught you something? Gosh, Sherlock you are telling me I changed you? I don't believe you."

"Obviously."

"Uh, don't change the subject."

"Why am I not to joke about it? Even if the jokes are bad… I'm still trying to practise that ability."

"Not with _this_ topic!…. "

"Why not?"

"Well, it actually still really hurts me," John burst out.

"I don't get it… you mean it hurts physically or emotionally or like in psychosomatic?"

Was this Sherlock being mean or just emotionally dumb once more?

"For god's sake, how can you be so insensible?" John yelled. "It hurts me because it reminds me of that bloody phone call, when you made me listen to your dammed suicide note!… The note hurt me. What you said hurt me. What you meant hurt me… and that you wanted me to tell everybody that you're a fraud hurt me… and that you left me in the dark for two years hurt me!" John was out of breath.

"I did that to keep you safe," Sherlock said in a stoic and calm voice.

"Oh, really!" John felt his anger rise even more. "Sometimes I wondered if, had I been given a choice, I'd have chosen to be 'unsafe'…"

Sherlock looked honestly shocked now. "You're telling me you'd have preferred to be shot?"

John realised he had not wanted to imply this but his frustration was exploding right now.

"Maybe your intention was to spare me pain and death, Sherlock, but in fact the pain that 'keeping me safe' caused might have been worse than the alternative."

Now Sherlock looked ashamed, understanding the full force of John's remark.

"I needed you to be safe," Sherlock tried to explain his intentions, again.

"I know, but I still don't get why the hell did you thought making me listen to your 'note' kept me save?… Or seeing your mangled body on that pavement, covered in blood?…. Can you at all imagine what that did to me? This was _not_ keeping me safe. This was the worst hurt you could do to me…" John softened his voice, trying to get himself under control. Mary had told him to be open and listen carefully, but right now he was doing the opposite.

"It was all fake, you know that. Why do I have to explain this again? Just overwrite the old memories with the new ones… I can tell you how I did it in detail if that would help," Sherlock offered.

"NO! I can _not_ just overwrite stuff! Just to think of that moment where you lay there, your eyes staring blind into space makes me nauseous… For the rest of my life I _will_ remember the horror of that moment…. and the pain it caused," John was again really loud now, his friend's words pissing him off immensely.

"Those memories will be there for the rest of my life!… And to be honest, they're still popping up at least four times a day… This will _never_ stop to hurt, Sherlock. For you, it was just a show of your brilliancy to fake things… but did you ever spend a minute to think what this would do to me?… It re-awoke the PTSD, the limping came back, I was sick for weeks, I had nightmares for months, I still have trouble sleeping… this _still_ hurts!"

"I took a lot of discipline to go through with that act, it was not easy for me, too," Sherlock said.

"You were not the one having to deal with my loss… And I doubt you would have grieved for me," John was so angry now he overstepped the boundary. He said ugly things with the intention to hurt. He knew he did, he had not done this often before in his life, but right now he did, he was just _so_ very pissed… he didn't care.

"You think saying goodbye to you was easy? I did it to keep you safe… and to evade to loose you," Sherlock self-exculpated.

"And the price for that was making _me_ loose you, great treat…"

"I saw no other way."

"You could have told me. As simple as that."

"The risk was too high, I also said that before," Sherlock's tone was getting dangerous now.

"So you risked me blowing my head off in grief?" John yelled before he could stop himself.

.

Sherlock felt himself pale but to his relief John didn't see it. John's anger was making is difficult to breathe, it made the air thicken.

Instead of admitting that he knew all those things and saying how he felt and that it was difficult for him to know he was the cause of John's misery he just talked nonsense. Deep down he knew he had made a huge mistake. He had already said he was sorry. What else what required?

He knew the aim _he_ had had during his time away, to return to his former life, this goal had been missing in John's life after the funeral. John would have thought he had no chance to return to anything, in his understanding Sherlock had been gone. Since his nightmares last week, when he dreamt about John taking his own life, he had a vague idea of how that must have felt.

"I didn't plan it to take so long. I had hoped I'd be back after three or four months," Sherlock tried to explain.

"And when you realised it would take longer, you could have let me know then… why didn't you Sherlock?…Why?"

"I didn't mean to… hurt you with this," Sherlock tried to express his remorse once more.

"No, you _did _because you were careless, this hurts even more, Sherlock. You never care about anything than yourself and your fun."

Was that really what John thought about him? Was he like that?

"The way you sprang to me in that bloody restaurant showed very clearly that you thought I would welcome you with open arms no matter what, as if I had sat here the whole two years just waiting for you to come back…. but for that it would have been necessary to know you were alive… tiny little thing you forgot… But I thought you were DEAD!… rotting in that bloody grave… lost forever…" John's voice broke with the last words.

Sherlock stood there, staring out of the window, trying to keep something that made him feel like-he-needed-to-rip-it-out at bay, it made his throat hurt. It was all so wrong.

He had indeed thought that John would react different to his return, Mycroft had warned him that his own attitude was wrong, but he hadn't thought it was possible that his brother was right.

_He_ was wrong. _He_ had screwed it… and he had just now added to that mess again, with a dumb remark he had thought might be funny. Blundered again… hurt John again, caused distress. He bit his lips, wondering why his chest felt so tight, everything was wrong.

Interaction was a nasty maze, more than it had ever been before. He had felt like this as a child and he had hated it, now the feeling was back and his insides trembled with disgust. As a child he had then stopped speaking, knowing that whatever he'd say it was wrong anyway, so speaking was a lost cause.

He turned around and looked at John, the doctor didn't look good. Pale and exhausted, and hesitating.

Maybe another apology was needed?

Would he start to yell again if Sherlock spoke? This kind of shouting was something Sherlock had never liked, but right now it was really making him dizzy with the need to flee. He looked down, not knowing what to do, trying to be busy with the tea, not sure if he should even try to speak.

.

John was already sorry for his outburst, he knew how hard it had hit Sherlock seeing the tape of John on his bed with the gun, he shouldn't have brought that into the conversation… but he was so pissed right now…. He tried to calm down, it was not right to have mentioned it, and especially not in such an accusing way.

Sherlock seemed to be close to burst with anger himself… or something else? Why was _he_ holding back?

"Usually you yell at me about what is getting on your nerves, so go on, tell me why you are angry at me," John grouched, maybe tried to encourage him. Maybe shouting at each other would be a bit healing… He wanted to hear it and he wanted Sherlock to get it out of his system by saying it, though this might be not the best way.

He was suddenly aware he was provoking a reaction.

He inwardly rolled his eyes about his own behaviour, remembering a conversation he had with yesterday with Mrs Hudson when he had come home. "Oh god, John, I think I did something bad," she had greeted him, "I did an… social experiment myself. I yelled at him. but instead of him coming to life and yell back even more he just… faltered. I… I'm so sorry. I thought it would work, always did with my sister's children."

"He's not a child, Mrs Hudson," John had said.

"I know dear, I know, but every now and then things like that work."

"I have noticed."

"But today, he peeled the ginger and my potatoes and although I tried to make him talk to me… he just sat there, looking like… like I had just really done something bad, he had never done that before."

John saw tear in her eyes. "He's so battered, John…."

"I know."

"And he is just so rude… and he waked my caring instincts like this, but he shoves me away whenever I fail to hide them."

John had grinned, but when she looked around at him he hastily removed the smile from his face. Had she ever been able to hide them at all? He didn't know she was even trying. Quite unsuccessful.

"He'll forgive you, you know how he is sometimes, sulking or exploding. Tell me what happened," he had told her. Now he wasn't sure if his outburst would be forgiven. Shit, Sherlock was pissing people off a lot lately. Was Mary right and he was doing this to test how willing they were to put up with him, or was he doing the opposite of what he needed to punish himself, driving people away he actually wanted around?

Now, that he had released his frustration, in his opinion Sherlock had the same right to vent. John knew he was burying some things deep inside, but didn't expect Sherlock would talk about them. This was the hardcore way, provoking an reaction, maybe the only option.

He had not planed to do this, it had just happened, as is had with their landlady, but they were here already, so stopping his own anger to make something good out of this fight would be actually not a bad idea. But it was not working, Sherlock didn't scream back or went into the offensive, at least not for a long time. It gave John time to collect himself and cool down his anger.

When he had almost given up the hope that Sherlock would speak at all, he finally did.

"I died for you… I left my life behind to safe you… I destroyed my reputation to make sure you'd survive. I left you behind. It… it was the biggest sacrifice ever made, there is nothing more I can give… But it was obviously not enough…. and not the right thing. I am a fool. Doing everything wrong. I am sorry." Sherlock whispered in a defeated low voice, looking away.

"God, Sherlock…" this was the least John had expected and it made him want to punch himself for his aggressive behaviour before.

"Moriarty was right. He burned something out of me… I just didn't know it until last week. He won. He destroyed everything that was worth living for. He took what I need, he turned it against me. He's a genius."

"Sherlock… don't…" John started, he knew Sherlock wasn't saying this because he wanted to hurt or insult him, he said it because it was what he experienced and felt, it was a tiny little glimpse into what he thought. Everybody had moved on, but Sherlock was not a part in any of it. He must feel left behind and useless.

"This was what he wanted, he won," Sherlock finished.

Silence.

The detective stood there, his face a dead mask and John realised he himself felt coming close to another meltdown. Sherlock's silence and defeat was heartbreaking.

John had not deemed it possible the man could be so disconnected and silent as he had been in the past days… so _muted_, he appeared lifeless. This was so much not like Sherlock that it freaked him out… and those words themselves and their meaning freaked him out, too.

"Sherlock, what do you think were the last two weeks about? Did you get the impression you were not worth my… help?" John's voice broke with the last words and he needed a few moments to regain control.

Sherlock did not move.

"Did my anger hurt you so much you really think you are this worthless?"

His former flatmate still didn't move an inch, nor did he say anything, he didn't even blink. The resignation that was in his eyes scared John.

"The past two weeks were about showing you how grateful I am that you are back, to help you regain control over this whole thing. To be a friend. To show you I missed you so much…" His voice broke again and he paused for several seconds. "I need you in my life and there is one thing you could do right, right now. Stay with me. Do not leave again without me… I'm not really angry any longer… I just still hurt, the same feeling you have experienced during the past weeks… I hurt because I missed you so much and it was so horrible to go through the last two years… Maybe this was what Moriarty aimed for, but it will only _be_ what he wanted if you give up now, do you realise that?"

The doctor did a step towards his friend, then continued.

"This is what he probably meant when he threatened to burn your heart out of you, yes… He meant hurting your soul so much you'd break with it. It's a decision you are doing now… if you want to let him be right or not… Let's not make him succeed. Let's fight this. We need to get through this, restore what we had. I know it will never been like it was before but it will go on… I know you have serious issues with things changing, but… the important things won't change... Right now, you need to heal… Follow my lead with this if you don't trust yourself. I can't loose you again… I can't…" John felt the wetness on his face and was glad Sherlock was looking the other way. Instead of provoking Sherlock to puke out his guts he was the one it seems.

"I don't deserve your friendship, John. I put you through hell. I ruined everything… And I even failed to prevent that you saw the fall itself, I'm a failure… You'd be better off without me. Go on with your life, have children… enjoy life. Because I never will, and you'd be wasted by the things that drive me. I can't think, my brain is so misty I do all sorts of stupid things normal people do. My observing skills are down to _your_ level, or even worse when you see things I don't. I'm clueless, my mind is dulled and blinded and clouded. I want to go back… back to being a machine," Sherlock was finally showing a bit of agitation, but nothing that was suitable to his words.

John closed his eyes, trying to get a grip. He had accused Sherlock of being a machine when they had spoken shortly before the fall, their last conversation before the 'note', before the world had changed for ever, before everything went wrong.

John had yelled at him and been angry at him back then. He had repeated that conversation in his head over and over in the past two years, asking himself what he could have done to prevent Sherlock from committing suicide, wondered if he had rubbed it in and given him an additional push with his words.

When John opened his eyes Sherlock was back to just staring ahead blindly. His face not showing any emotion or turmoil, just emptiness.

"You can't. It won't work. I was wrong, you _never_ were a machine and you never will be. You can't go. I won't survive if you leave me again… I won't, Sherlock… Don't do this to me." Sherlock didn't react. But this egoistic notion was the only real argument John had, the only he knew Sherlock would listen to, at least if it was really true and he had done the whole thing because he wanted to protect John.

"I know what is happening to you. You are right now sliding down a vortex. This is a depression speaking Sherlock and the worst thing you can do right now is going with it. You need to fight it."

"I have nothing left to fight with."

.

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_A/N:_

_Sorry I had to divide this conversation, it was way to long (seven pages up to this point and eight more to follow)._

_There are a few repetitions in this chapter, things have been said before, but since repeating bad facts and thoughts again and again is a depression thing (and also, though in a different way, an Asperger's thing) I use this to underline Sherlock being stuck in this. Besides, many things has been discussed but not in between the two of them, finally they are talking again… to each other, I mean._

_._

_Constructive criticism welcome. Please give me some feedback. _


	28. Chapter 28

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

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**Chapter 28**

**Friday morning - Part 2**

"I have nothing left to fight with."

"I know…. You feel defeated. I have been there, I know how ugly this feels. Let me help… And if you don't want to see anybody about it…"

"I won't," Sherlock's tone was hard.

"I know, I won't make you, but this is getting too much… We need to prevent this from getting out of control… and I'm obviously not enough to give you the help you need… your depression is worsening…. so please… take some meds…. We need to get a grip on this…" only after John had spoken he somehow did what Ella had suggested, he put some pressure on Sherlock, pressure to take part and decide he needed to get better.

Sherlock took breath to answer but John was faster.

"If you don't do it for yourself do it for me… I… need… you."

Sherlock still stood motionless and said nothing. They had been at a similar point several days ago, before the first mind palace session. John assumed this was part of the daily fight and remembered it had been similar when he had been in the hospital during his rehabilitation.

He had been devastated and unmotivated and every day was torture. He had needed someone either to give him some TLC or to kick his ass to get some motivation back, but no one was there, which was mabybe the worst aspect of it all. His life had been so empty and useless and now Sherlock felt the same and needed somebody, and John would kick him every minute of every fucking day if necessary to make sure he knew he was not alone.

Sherlock would not be able to ask for help, he'd not know what he needed and he was probably more lost than ever.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" Sherlock suddenly yelled and turned around with an angry stare in his eyes and his hands in fists.

John saw him shivering with….? Yeah, what was it?

He did a step towards John and the doctor wondered if he had gone to far and how to handle this. The delayed rage took him by surprise.

"You are angry, that is normal," he tried to soothe. Mary had said he needed to be open minded, and welcome him and listen. Now that his own anger had evaporated he needed to be outgoing with Sherlock, to soften the blow he had just thrown at him. He felt really bad about having lost control like this.

"I am not angry. Go back to your life and let me alone! I am fine!" Sherlock yelled, his face was distorted with anger or… disgust or something now.

John did the only thing he could think off, he made a step forward with raised hands.

Hurt was oozing out of Sherlock, his defeated posture made John realise he had the urge to comfort him but he couldn't figure out how to actually do it. There was nothing he could do and he felt bloody helpless once more. The only thing he'd do with every other human being than Sherlock was… he made another step and now stood directly in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what do you feel right now?" he said in a very low and soothing voice.

"I don't know," Sherlock's voice was as low as his, not yelling at least.

There were a few moments of silence.

"Good or bad?"

"Not good."

"Sad? Angry?"

"Frustrated."

"You're aware that you describe every negative feeling as 'frustrated', are you?" John asked. This whole conversation was a mess but at least Sherlock was talking to him at all.

"No… Yes."

"Can you actually distinguish between anger and frustration?"

"I don't know."

"When you throw things against the wall, what does it feel like? Why do you do it?"

"I don't know. Just… venting."

"Yeah, but what do you vent?"

"Frustration."

"Right. Are you angry at me for punching you?"

"No."

"Are you frustrated that I punched you?"

"No."

"Shit, are you glad I punched you?"

"I deserved it."

"That was not the question."

The doctor realised they were not only talking but also Sherlock was seriously opening up a bit, what the hell had changed that they were finally doing this again?

"I am glad you could vent. I hoped it would make you feel better," Sherlock explained.

"That was not the question."

"I don't know."

"I will touch you," John warned.

Oh, hell, Sherlock was a human being after all, and he had coped with John touching him before.

So when Sherlock didn't step back and continued to look away, the doctor stepped even closer, standing directly in front of the other man.

Then he carefully and slowly moved up his arms and wrapped him in a careful hug.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise but didn't move away.

John feared a more violent eruption could happen any moment and he held his breath. He expected to be told he was useless and his sentiment was disgusting, but nothing like that happened.

His friend had started trembling, but obviously was too stunned to react. John didn't dare to move either, and they stood there for almost thirty seconds before John gulped down his sorrow and blinked the threatening tears from his eyes once more.

"I'm sorry I punched you… and that I was so very angry. I've already forgiven you, you know that, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Please, let me get you some stuff that dims those dark thoughts. Just for a few weeks… Please… I can't loose you again… When I came back from Afghanistan I… they offered me meds, and I refused. I had never taken ADs before and was not eager, but at some point I realised I needed more help than I thought and I gave it a try. It was not that I liked it, but it smoothed the path a bit, gave me the chance to have more strength for recovering. It was a necessary evil and I think you are at a similar point."

The doctor waited to see if it was the topic of medication that was getting to Sherlock so much, but the other man said nothing.

"Sherlock. I forgave you, but now you must forgive yourself, too."

John felt hot wetness on his face and was grateful that Sherlock couldn't see them. At least he managed to keep his voice in check. Maybe they should _both_ take something, he thought with sarcasm, this was not very manly and proof enough they were both doing the opposite of well.

Sherlock hadn't moved the tiniest bit, and John didn't dare to break the contact to take a closer look at his face. Sherlock would have shoved him away if he had wanted to, though he was tense and passive, not responding at all.

John became worried, had he done the wrong thing? Messed it up even more than it already was?

Then Sherlock minutely let his head sink down and it leaned against the top of his shoulder with the slightest of touch.

John held his breath.

He felt Sherlock trembling and the breathing was sounding more and more strained, like someone trying to suppress his emotions by force.

When John felt Sherlock lean against him minutely he tightened his grip.

This was good, a tiny gesture of trust and acceptance.

John's heart started to feel lighter immediately.

"Sherlock,… what I said before… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you with that. Yes, I was angry, a small part of me _is_ still angry, but this is not the important part, the other ninety-eight percent of me are _not_ angry any longer. Don't concentrate on those two percents. Let's both just wait until it is gone… It will," John tried to do what Mary had suggested, explain his emotions so Sherlock would understand what was going on and not misinterpreting things. "Don't think this small part it is what I think, or want to hold onto. The important thing is… that you are alive… and to make you… _us _better and get over hurting about this. You know, almost dying trying to safe me and then kill me by killing yourself is kind of nonsense. And I don't want to be heading into that. And you aren't either?… Sherlock, I'm sorry I yelled. Those were words of anger, and the anger will be visible sometimes, but it's not what is important."

Sherlock still didn't move. This was the most trusting and vulnerable he had ever seen the man, this was profound.

They stood there, just stood.

Sherlock needed almost three minutes until his breathing finally lost the stuttering rhythms.

Another minute later John felt him sway slightly.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

The detective seemed to fight with something.

John let go of him to see his face, it was a mask, but the turmoil was clearly visible in his eyes.

"We need to sit down," the doctor whispered and tried to gently guide him sideways to sit on the sofa. But Sherlock refused to move.

"John, I…"

"What is it?"

Sherlock's distress was growing and it started to freak John out.

"I… I did…" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"What did you do, Sherlock?" John asked alarmed.

"… something stupid."

"Sherlock?"

When he didn't answered immediately John did something out of impulse, he grasped Sherlock's lowered head with both hands, careful but determined and made him look into his face.

"What did you do, Sherlock?" he was well aware there was a lot of anxiety in his voice.

"I… I took morphine… I mean I had a minor relapse… I'm …"

"Shit!" John let go of Sherlock's face and the detectives head sunk low without the touch again. "Are you high?"

"Not now…. Few nights ago."

"Shit," John fell into the sofa heavily and pressed his fingers into his eyes, he was feeling kind of sick.

"How much?"

"Small dose."

"How often."

"Once."

"Really? What else?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Sherlock. Tell me. Just once is kind of not really believable."

"My secret hoard was discovered and removed."

"What? By whom?" John remembered Mycroft had been in the flat several times, must have been him then.

"I am sorry."

"Eh, Sherlock," the doctor didn't know what to say and looked up at the man still standing in the same position. John stood up and took him by the shoulders. "Sit down with me."

He shoved Sherlock into the seating and sat down next to him.

Sherlock leaned forward immediately and rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands.

John watched him closely, sitting on the edge of the seat. This was _so_ not good. He was lost for words and shocked. But Sherlock had just entrusted him with something really serious.

"Do you feel the urge to go out and get new stuff?"

"I don't know."

At least that was honest.

"Do you think you could tell me if you felt like it."

"I don't know."

"Why did you take it?"

"I needed a break, from all this… from everything, from the world…" Sherlock let his hands sink between his knees and lowered his head even more.

"When was that exactly."

"Monday night."

"Oh, bloody hell," John whispered, it was the night he had had kind of a meltdown after a nightmare about Sherlock's fall, "You heard me, didn't you?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"It stressed you so much you needed to dull the pain."

Another nod.

"Oh god, I'm sorry Sherlock."

"You have nothing to feel sorry about," Sherlock grunted, slightly unnerved, rubbing his flat hands over his face.

"Yes, I do. During the past days I had nightmares every night and I myself am at a point where it would be smart to take some ADs. I decided I'll start as soon as Sarah writes me a prescription. How about you do the same? Take some meds I prescribe for you? You are right, you need a bit of a break, something to ease this a bit, something legal and controlled, no drugs but medicine."

There were almost two minutes of silence before Sherlock nodded into his hands, and John understood he was accepting the suggestion.

"Some mild ADs then?"

Sherlock nodded once more.

"Anti-anxiety stuff, too?"

Sherlock shook his head, John had expected that. This was more than he had hoped for and the ADs alone would be his first choice, too if he was Sherlock. There were still the meds for emergencies John had in store if need arises.

The doctor was relieved Sherlock had agreed on one hand but on the other it made him very uneasy because this really showed how close to the bottom his friend was, hitting the ground might be fatal… The stuff would need at least two weeks until it worked properly, Sherlock would need someone here constantly, at least until then.

Letting him alone might be really dangerous according to what he had just heard a few minutes ago.

John put his hand on the other man's back and rubbed slowly up and down twice to give Sherlock some more comfort, still anxious his hand might be shoved away.

But Sherlock sat up a bit, face still covered with his hands and then leaned sideways and lay down on the sofa, his feet still on the ground.

John stood up and made room for him when Sherlock put his forearm over his eyes.

Then went and put the kettle on. While it heated up he fetched a wet hot towel from the bathroom and returned to Sherlock's side.

The detective hadn't moved and John tipped his knee to signal him he should lift his legs onto the seat.

Since Sherlock's hand was hanging in the air John gently placed the cloth into it.

"Want some tea?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock nodded and when John headed back to the kitchen he saw Sherlock unfold the cloth and then put it over his forehead and his eyes, which confirmed John's theory that Sherlock was developing a headache, probably caused by the tension.

"You want something to help you sleep?"

"John… You know my standard answer to that. I… this is… don't ask me. I can't… I won't. Decide and go with it, do not ask me, because the answer will always be the same. If you think it needs override, don't ask me, because asking feels like betrayal."

John's internal jaw dropped. This was quite an interesting statement. In his world _not_ asking felt like betrayal. This was about trust, wasn't it? He remembered the conversation with Lestrade. 'Just do it, he can't ask. Be brisk.' Sherlock was prompting him to do the same right now! Why wasn't he able to just say 'yes'? John realised he had just found another issue he had been too blind to see, though he couldn't quite grasp it.

"But drugging you would also be betrayal."

"Yes."

"That's nonsense. What's the point?"

"No medications like that."

"Right."

Sherlock was the greatest control freak he had ever met. Well, the only thing John was sure off right now was that it meant trust, loads of trust.

The conversation had been quite a roller coaster and he felt as spent as Sherlock probably did after his confession. He had never thought Sherlock would actually tell him that he had taken anything. He had always thought if Sherlock had a relapse he'd shout accusations at him and Sherlock would yell back denying everything. This scenario was definitely the last he had expected, as was the choice of drug. Not cocaine to help him concentrate, but morphine to kill the pain, mental and maybe a bit of physical pain, too. It was kind of a surrender, first to the opiate and now to John. This was good, probably the biggest step towards healing since the latest mind palace session, which was much too long away for John's liking.

He stood in front of the kettle. The confidence Sherlock had just gifted him with affected him deeply and he fought tears once more while pouring water over the tea bags.

"You feel safe enough to sleep?" he asked once he was back in the living room.

"I don't want to sleep," Sherlock had lifted his feet onto the sofa and was properly lying down now, thought his lower arm was still covering his eyes.

"Yes, you do," John fetched a blanket and spread it over him.

"When have you last slept?" John remembered the other man still had his shoes on.

"Some…"

"Yeah?" the doctor flipped back the duvet from Sherlock's feet and removed the shoes. Sherlock dragged his knees up as soon as he was finished.

"Sleep, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled, clearly exhausted.

"You're welcome," John answered as soon as he had recovered from the surprise about the gratefulness in Sherlock's voice. Saying thank you, that was new, too. Though he wasn't sure what he had done to be thanked for.

"Get some sleep."

"I hate sleep."

"I know, waste of time, stupid, only for normal people…," John mocked kindly.

"No… nightmares," Sherlock answered, removing the smile from the doctor's face immediately.

Oh, right.

"You can wake me if they get too bad, you know that, right?… Just knock at my door.. or text me."

John was sure Sherlock would sleep like a stone for at least a few hours. He felt reminded of the moment where Sherlock had fallen out of bed after Irene had drugged him, out of his mind, uncoordinated and vulnerable.

Like back then he padded Sherlock's side under the covers.

"Wake me if it gets too bad or you feel a certain urge… or if you just want company, we don't need to talk, we can just watch TV or talk about the case."

He expected Sherlock would make a dismissing remark but he just mumbled, "'kay."

John stayed with him and watched him sleep the entire morning and early afternoon, the news about the relapse heavy in his stomach, but the trust warmed his soul.

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_A/N:_

_Sorry if this was a bit fluffy, but I really think Sherlock needed a hug from John after his return, not too soon because John was still so angry, but in the end of the episode would have been nice. I loved that Greg did it, though._

_Please review._


	29. Chapter 29

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_This took quite some time. I had this chapter already written, but when I re-read it I didn't like it, so I dumped it and started new. The thing was I didn't like the new one either and started a third. This is the fifth to be exact and it took me this long to create something I liked._

_Sorry this took so long therefore. _

_Many thanks to the loyal readers and that are still with me. Thank you so much._

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**Chapter 29**

**Friday afternoon **

John called Mary around noon, telling her about the conversation he had with Sherlock. She was very uneasy with what he told her but explained she was sure her future husband had the situation under control and promised to pick up the meds on the way home, so Sherlock could start to take them as soon as possible.

In the early afternoon John decided to take a nap, too. His stomach had started to rebel about all the stress and he decided lying down for a bit would do him good.

Sherlock was still asleep and since John also felt leaden tiredness constricting him he decided he needed rest. So he left the doors open in between them and slept in his old room.

A loud noise from downstairs made him sit up suddenly, before he was even fully awake.

He immediately knew it was Sherlock's voice that had woken him, but could not figure out if it was a bad or neutral noise.

Still half asleep he hurried down the stairs.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the sofa, rubbing his eyes in quite a forceful way.

"Hey," John greeted him, "What's happening?"

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but then just shut it again, out of words, it seemed.

"Sherlock?"

"_Someone_ is in the mind palace and flooded the level. He's… he's…." Sherlock bombarded him without introduction, "…he's in there."

"What the hell?… Who's where?"

"I need to find him, he needs to go… I can't stand an intruder! Especially not him. I need to hunt him down."

"Who?… " John stammered, still not really awake. Sherlock was clearly uneasy and agitated. "Calm down, Sherlock. It's fine, we'll find him," he tried to reassure his friend.

"I need to repair the mind palace."

"Yes. No news, that one."

"I can't solve the case without the palace," Sherlock sprang up and started running up and down the room.

"_You_ were the one who refused a 'mind-palace-fixing-session' on several occasions when I offered."

"I was not in the mood and I didn't need assistance."

"You agreed to let me help," John stood up and stepped in Sherlock way, interrupting his agitated walking.

"Yes. Sorry, please do assist… Sorry. Habit," Sherlock stopped his pacing.

"Okay, sit down…."

Sherlock did, on the sofa.

"So let's have some tea so I have time to wake up fully and then give it a go."

There was a long silence in which Sherlock obviously tried to calm down and get into the right mindset to do this.

"You get tea and wake up while I try to head for the swarm-prison," the detective then suggested.

"Oh, it has a name, now?… No, you wait for me!"

"Well, I don't need names, you do. I know what I'm doing, but communicating contents sometimes need those, as your blog entries do, those are equally stupid."

"Hey, hey, I was not criticising, I was just doing conversation," John was halfway into the kitchen. When he had switched on the kettle he decided coffee would be a better choice.

When he returned three minutes later Sherlock was lying down with his eyes closed. Dammit, why couldn't he just wait a few moments?

"How can we make sure you don't meet… the intruder? And how the hell do you know there is someone in there at all?"

"I saw him… before… No, sensed him, when I cleaned out the rubble.** I felt like being watched, like shadows lurking in the dark, movement behind me. I was not sure if I had really seen it, but now I am. I just dreamt about that mind palace session, and it was more… physical. It's more a ghost than a person, male, large, bulky."

"You had a nightmare about your mind palace? Does that happen often?"

"No. Well, sometimes, but usually the building does not look like my mind palace, it's more a… maze of a building, a ruin sometimes, something abandoned or mysterious, haunted, dangerous… I dream of those kind of houses since I am a child, though I in general rarely dream. I also still revisit houses I saw first when I was a child," Sherlock informed, "… er, dreamscape houses I mean."

"That's odd," John frowned and wondered what a therapist would say about that.

"No, it's not," Sherlock argued.

"Well, fine. The more important thing is how do we protect you from that intruder?"

"Indeed. I have no idea, other than try to face him and throw everything at him I have. The part to prevent an ambush is the most… difficult."

"That's how it feels what he did?"

"What could flooding the palace be other than an hidden attack? Or burning things down?"

"You sure he did that?"

"No, to be honest. Might have been some other aggressor or… or… circumstances."

"We need a strategy."

"I could built a wall and prevent him from following."

"Okay, good idea. Something else?"

"I take a gun."

"Em, yes."

Sherlock then just leaned back and stayed quiet.

After two minutes John asked, "You think that's enough?" and when the other man didn't react he asked, "Are you there, yet?" in a low voice.

"Yes, just entered the lab… the prison I mean."

"Everything as it should be?"

It took almost two minutes until Sherlock answered, "Yes, everything as I left it… as it seems."

"Seal the door tightly and check the perimeter."

Sherlock grinned, it looked only a bit exaggerated and the former soldier assumed his previous occupation's typical language was the cause.

"You left in a bit of a hurry, do we need to deal with something half finished?" he then asked.

Another minute passed.

"Er…" Sherlock seemed a bit disgusted.

"What is it?"

"The hive is still here, seems the containment measures were successful, though there are numerous smears on the walls and everything is a bit chaotic… it seems to have… moved around and has grown a bit…"

"Okay, you want to proceed like last time?"

"Yes, let me get the equipment."

In the meantime John went to get his coffee. Four minutes later, when Sherlock was still silent, he asked, "You're ready?"

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, hesitation clear in his voice. "The rat tail is in formaldehyde and smelling bad… I want to weld it shut… into something… or better burn it."

"Sounds good," John sat down in his armchair.

"D'… done," Sherlock reported, a suppressed coughing interrupted him, "preparing to dismantle the swarm further now."

John sipped his coffee and watched his fraught friend.

"Maybe you should construct a waste incineration… something for this, I mean there might be some more things you need to destroy, or maybe a dust bin would be good."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I need to do this one at a time and fully conscious to the process. If it happens out of sight it wouldn't work… no putting it somewhere else where it could cause havoc… and no other connections to the outside via a disposal system."

"Oh, right… That's… good thinking, thorough, I mean. Got your protective gear on?"

"No," Sherlock was mentally rolling his eyes, John knew from his tone.

"You know you should."

"Yesss," Sherlock hissed, "Happy now?"

"You know I can't see you, right?" John smiled.

"Hmpf," Sherlock grunted, and a moment later gave another unnerved sound.

"What?" John asked, a bit alarmed about the disgust in the detective's voice.

"This… thing is already dead, smells dead, acts dead, is decomposing…" he explained.

"You plugged something out off the swarm, didn't you?… What does it stand for?"

"I don't know. But a normal corpse smells like roses in comparison to this."

"Find out what it is about and get rid off it."

Sherlock seemed to suppress a gag and strokes with his hand over his mouth slowly.

"Hey, you said you are wearing the gear, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock pressed out, "Forgot… forgot the basil leaves, getting them now," he explained.*

"What do you think it might stand for?"

"Me being dead?"

John winced, it was plump but it might be true, and Sherlock had answered without hesitation.

"It feels as dead as I did when I was…"

"Go on," John tried to encourage him when he kept silent for almost a minute after starting the sentence.

"I'm not sure this is wise…"

"Why not?"

"I don't want to… This is private."

"This is about sharing. Abolish privacy, you agreed to, now do it."

"I… was alone, it… it hurt. I was desperate. The need to have company was overwhelming and it did quite some damage while I was in Hamburg, I never felt as dead as I felt there."

"What happened?" John asked carefully.

"I had nightmares… night terrors. I felt myself… dying…. Not like someone dreams of dying, I felt it, felt the life leave my body, beyond recall… final. Returning to London seemed to be out of reach."

"I know how that feels, Sherlock, I've been there, I had those dreams, too. Reliving the process of being near death. You can't just switch it off. I couldn't… any ideas of how to deal with those?"

"No," Sherlock breathed.

"Okay, those belong to the most horrible experiences of the whole PTSD experience. Never found another way than let out the grief. Scream, stamp on them, just let it go…"

"I don't understand…"

"Or maybe you can wrap them into something and hand them over to me?" John suggested.

"What good would that do since you can't handle them?"

"To get them out off the palace… Right. Maybe I can't. How about you pack them tight so they can't move?"

"They are already dead, they don't move, that's the point. And I don't want you to have to handle those… You had enough trouble with it…"

John raised his eyebrows, in this moment he felt not like shut out but in fact protected.

"I… how about you try to give them a burial, spread their ashes somewhere far away, honouring the sacrifice this was for you and me and letting them go?"

Ella had suggested something similar to John, to bury certain things, although he had never done it, he now suggested it to Sherlock, it felt odd, but maybe the detective was able to convert this into something meaningful that might help him.

"That would confirm that I died and have to vanish from the face of the earth. Maybe this … element needs to be 'revived'. I'll put it down and think of it later… next one."

John was not sure this was a good idea but went on with Sherlock's actions.

An hour later Sherlock had revealed a pile of new details and thoughts about Moriarty's web and the fight against it, his actions to hunt down the evil man's associates. One detail was more horrible than the next, but some shone some light on things John didn't dare to ask, like Sherlock's damaged toes.

But there were also some they both grinned about, though those were rare and ridiculous, like Sherlock's long hair. Off some the detective even seemed a bit ashamed, John was glad they had something that was not breathtakingly horrible and provided some relaxation. It went on easier after that initial bad first hour. Sherlock sank deeper into the task then, explaining less and less to John about what was happening.

In the end Sherlock had been on the sofa for three hours and besides a few surprised huffs and once or twice a suck in of air that sounded like another bad surprise he hadn't moved for quite some time, neither spoken or reacted to his surroundings in any way.

The doctor started thinking of how to gently interrupt, because Sherlock would work himself into total exhaustion like this, again. On the other hand Sherlock needed to feel some self-determination, so John decided he'd let it happen, at least as long as it wasn't too absurd or Sherlock's reactions not too horrible. He now and then said something, just to signal he was still with his him and guarding the situation, expressed something soothing or relaxing in moments during that his friend tensed a bit.

When Sherlock finally stirred John moved over to be a bit closer and asked in a low voice, "Everything alright?"

"I built a new level," Sherlock answered without having opened his eyes.

"Oh, all alone?"

"No, you were here the whole time."

"I was?" John joked, knowing quite well he hadn't left Sherlock alone for more than a few seconds to get more coffee or use the loo.

"You are mocking me, aren't you?"

"Yes," John smiled, "What happened?"

"I started to built a new level, took some time. I tried to create it without any connections to the old ones. It's more like a new palace on top of the old one. One just for this case, different entrance, only from the roof. And there are loads of one-way routes and safety mechanisms. I hope I can later built in doors and stairways that connect it to the old areas… as soon as it is safe."

"What use is it all alone? You said before it was futile."

"Well, it kind of is… but better than nothing. Only the case information is inside, yet. I need to work on making the old one safe again, too, but not now. This was more important."

John smiled at him, Sherlock was really trying to work on his issues.

.

"Sherlock, go with Lestrade. Do some deductions and solve something…" John said two hours later.

"Why aren't you coming?"

"I need some time to organise a few things. Just go, do something interesting."

"You need to do something… intimate.. with…?"

John's mouth opened and he blushed, Sherlock had always been more direct about this topic than he liked.

"No… Yes… maybe… I mean…"

"It's fine… fine. Do have some nice-time with your future wife… I will stay away for a few hours."

John didn't even realise Sherlock was agreeing to leave his own home assuming they would use the free time to have sex or whatever couples did, instead of suggesting they go to their real home and do it there.

His former flatmate vanished into the bathroom and when he returned to the kitchen he was in his dress suit and had the new scarf he was wearing since his return already in his hands.

John had just stood there, the whole time. He needed Sherlock safe and somewhere else. Those were his only priorities after he had texted Lestrade and told him he needed him to baby-sit Sherlock for the evening. Greg had agreed without any further questions, Sherlock had asked to participate in the observation, anyway. The doctor felt the need for some alone-time.

"Are you frozen or something?" Sherlock asked while picking up this coat.

"No. I move quite a lot, just not in the past minute since you were in the loo. I need to plan the weekend, I'll be busy."

"What about the weekend?" Sherlock slipped into the coat.

"Mary will come over on Sunday afternoon. Then she'll return to stay over at our house."

"What? She is staying there? Why?" Sherlock froze in his movements and seemed honestly unsettled about this.

"She… she thought it would be better for the both of us to… do some… I mean… She wants to give us some space."

"Will she stay over at your place?"

"Yes."

"Why? Did I do it wrong?"

"No, you didn't, she just needs to do… things. Not everything is about you, Sherlock," the doctor tried to explain, although this was all about the detective as far as he understood it.

"Well, she is… good for you… I mean she kept you alive and all…"

John gulped, the utterance hit him harder than it should.

Sherlock must have realised it because he frowned. "Not good?"

"No."

"Sorry. I meant… I"

"I know. It's okay. I got it. Go out and do some surveillance or have fun hunting criminals."

A car horn honked outside and John assumed it was Greg.

"Laters," Sherlock hurried down the stairs.

John headed into his room. He desperately felt he needed to do _something_, clear his head. But before he had time to think of something, laying on his bed, his book in hand, he had fallen asleep again.

.

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.

_*If you haven't read the first part of this story, where John accompanies Sherlock into the mind palace for the first time, you might want to do so. The thing with the basil leaves happen in chapter 28 and 29, when Sherlock is quite distressed about some memories._

_** refers to Chapter 06 of this story_


	30. Chapter 30

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands __and no profit is being made__._

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**…**

**Saturday morning**

In the early hours of the morning Sherlock finally returned to Baker Street, his mind frizzing with the events of the past hours.

While he hastened up the stairs he drew breath to yell for John, but then remembered Mrs Hudson might be sleeping and John and Mary might be still… busy.

He entered the living room while listening carefully to any sign of life.

Nothing.

A large note pinned to his microscope, Mary's writing.

'John was asleep when I arrived, I let him sleep, dinner is in the fridge. See you on Sunday. Sherlock: Eat something! John: Stuffs in the bag. Love, Mary.'

Sherlock frowned.

Hadn't John said he wanted some alone time?

Now that he thought about it, he realised he had assumed the other man had meant time alone to be with Mary, but obviously she was not included, or had she changed plans when he was asleep?

John had not objected Sherlock's assumption and used it as an excuse not to come.

There was something wrong about this? Why didn't he want to join him?

The most silly ideas crossed his mind and he decided to ignore the topic for now and booted his computer.

The night had been interesting concerning the case, but before it came to that the surveillance had been quite dull, even unnerving when Lestrade tried to find out how Sherlock was doing.

Since he was not eager to talk, he had blocked this topic vehemently. The memories of the previous morning were still too sore and fresh in his mind. They also resurfaced as soon as there was silence in the car, which caused that he thought about the events almost half the night. Elements of their conversation running back and forth through his mind.

Self-observation and reflection led to the understanding that he couldn't remember that he had ever felt so very defeated and at the end of all things. Being this useless and raw with sentiment had left dark lingering shadows in his soul, which were equally paralysing as the feeling of being vulnerable. When he was honest with himself, he had to admit that things seemed to get worse every day, instead of better. He only saw one way out.

Not being able to work or function or think was horrible.

He felt like left alone in space. Like there was nothing more he could do. Not able to move in the void of gravity and the vacuum.

And then John was there. Had tried to provide gravity. And logic told him he was not able to rescue himself like this, he needed help.

He had not been sure he wanted it.

John had made it quite clear: both of them or no one, hadn't he? So only option left: save John by saving himself, only he couldn't.

He definitely needed help, the insight made him feel as nauseous and vertiginous as he had been yesterday during their conversation.

He knew nothing more to try and was at a point where he was so disoriented with existence and all the whys and hows that he just couldn't decide how to proceed, or if at all.

But then John had assumed control. He had hated this so much all his life, whenever someone had tried to do that. Sherlock knew he was a control freak, had always been. He had never thought it possible for him to give away control, but he had, to the only person who he trusted to take over, John.

John was different.

John touching him - hugging him - had caused a rush of emotions that had stunned him. He couldn't remember he had ever been hugged like this. It had been ages that he had been embraced at all, and that was by his mother, though she very well knew he preferred not to be touched this way.

Sherlock felt like his mind had been carried, something was sustained that had been about to collapse within him.

The shock about the touch had taken his breath away in the beginning, but John did it with so much implicitness that he had been able to accept it. He had fought not to escape the touch for a moment in the beginning, but it soon turned into John not constricting him, but supporting him.

Touch was an odd thing. It had felt not too bad after he had time to get used to it, though he didn't dare to think of it as a good thing. He didn't like fondness, especially not like this, but it had felt soothing and reminded him of the brotherly love John had shown so often before the fall, though never in such an intimate way before.

The doctor had reached in and touched something he didn't know could be touched, a fragile mass of which's existence he was quite surprised, a quivering core, fragile and hidden from his own understanding, softly glowing in the dark.

When he had leaned minutely into the embrace it was as if his body did it on it's own. Then he had felt as if John was a rock to lean on, so solid and safe and sure of the path that might lead to safety.

He still didn't dare to hope, but it was so good to give a bit of the decision-making to someone else. It was such a burden, so much back and forth in his mind, caused even more irresolution. There were so many thoughts about every tiny thing, which made making decisions kind of impossible at the moment. He felt confused, overwhelmed and empty.

And John had offered to stir for a bit, he felt so much lighter with this.

John deserved that his suggestions were being heard and followed, at least he could do that for while, since he wasn't able to do much of anything else anyway.

The memories of their conversation though also still felt kind of unreal, and he had felt so heavy and tired that he had even slept after it.

A leaden pressure on his skull was still present and reminded him of the swirling grey maelstrom his mind was currently. As soon as he forgot to focus and force his stream of thought into the right path, it span out of control and dwelled in depressive areas. He needed to channel his thoughts more than usual and it was so very exhausting.

Whenever he failed to do so his mind went down a vortex of dark thoughts, which led to more memories of the past two years, that came up again and again and dragged him deeper and deeper, caused desperation and sorrow and grief and regret and… He had known those go-around-in-circles- thoughts since he was a child, but not to this extend and so incapacitating.

But John was there, had shown a way.

He'd do it.

He'd try the pills.

He didn't like the idea, but he was out of options.

A large part of him was ashamed that he wasn't able to manage this on his own, but John was the only one he'd allow to do this, allow to see his wounds and vulnerability.

John had been there, knew how it felt.

He had never imagined sensations, sentiment and desperation existed like this. It was all unexpectedly intense and hopeless and dark, overwhelming and ugly.

Also he'd never though it even possible to reveal as much as he had shared with John, and here the doctor was, still assisting him without question, unconditional affection in a platonic way.

It frightened him.

It was more than he had expected could exist for him. It was just more than he deserved and could handle.

He couldn't grasp the concept. Finally his mind had shut down while John had held him.

It was a startling experience.

Two extremes, itching to shove John away on one hand and on the other wanting to allow him to see everything, bare it all. So much had changed… and so little.

He had sat in the dark car with Lestrade and suddenly felt why giving in to John's care was not surrendering but with receiving friendship, as Mary had suggested before. Back then he had not understood, but now, in the cold dark silence of the night, he suddenly did.

The trust he received from them both created something that felt like a soft blue translucent bubble that encased his mind in the dark.

And then he needed to escape the density of the car and the memories and he had gone for a short walk and to smoke.

This was when he found something!

When he had rounded the observed house he had seen something a few meters away, around the corner, but only because it reflected the orange glow of the streetlights, which were quite dark for a London area. At first he had thought it was a piece of aluminium foil wrapping, but when he had crawled under the bushes it turned out to be a single key on a large ring, a high tech sort of key, with some shreds of dark blue fabric left on the ring, artificial leather. Something must have been ripped off, probably some kind of fob. Subsequently Sherlock had taken his time to comb through the bushes with his torch.

He had searched the area before, in daylight even, but the key was only visible under the thick bushes from a distance and due to the reflection of light and because the weed that lined the extended front yard had been trimmed recently. The thing was not even visible when he leaned down to investigate what caused the reflection, only after standing inside the hedge and bending bushes away had he been able to pick it up.

On closer inspection he noted that several bushes showed signs being shoved away, five metres away from the site of find almost all plants were damaged somehow: broken twigs and some ripped off leaves. But around the place of discovery there was even more damage. So he assumed this was in fact the work of their perpetrator, he must have observed from the hedge and then grabbed the girl, and she must have put up a real fight if the damage was any indication. He must have somehow prevented that she screamed and then dragged her into the bushes, or they had stumbled into them while fighting, which was less likely.

But the most interesting thing was that the key was engraved with a company logo, that happened to belong to a business that offered space in a large complex of storage warehouses in the outskirts of London, in an industrial area.

As soon as he had shown Lestrade his findings the DI called for relief and they hurried back to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock had prepared to rush over to the area to search it, but then let Greg and Mycroft convince him that rushing to the site would do more harm than good and that they needed to collect further evidence to under girt the case.

No one had expected he might give in this fast and it caused several raised eyebrows. Which made him realise that something in him wanted John there. It was odd, but now that he had waited for him to accompany him on cases again for so long he needed him to be there. Sure, he had worked with Molly, but that had only amplified the dire need for John, had underlined how false it felt that he was not there.

John _needed_ to come with him. The idea that he was not there felt… wrong.

Sherlock inwardly sniffed at his own sentiment, it was like a murky puddle that distracted him from the important things. But he was drawn back to the feeling of absenteeism like by a magnet, the absence coming popping up in his mind again and again. He knew this sensation, it had plagued him during the his hiatus repeatedly.

He just needed John to be there. When he realised the nagging sense of loss would not go away, he just accepted to pass the time to gather more intel with the Yarders until John was back with him.

Another team was tailing Alexander Senior, who had been released from custody. They were in constant contact with the four units that took turns in surveillance, to hide their actions properly they rotated fast. Absolutely nothing had happened there. The man had gone home, ate, watched TV and went to bed. No telephone calls, no internet, no nothing.

So Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan spent the rest of the night reading lists of leaseholders, checking if they really existed, organised maps and marked who had rented what and so on. Until the morning they had found nothing interesting, and since it was important for the villain to keep his victim alive Sherlock was sure she was not in immediate danger for another few days. Though when stating that Donovan had bombarded him with a tirade about sociopaths and cold-blooded ignorance of a suffering victim's needs. Sherlock retorted that she should better shut up since she had not experienced captivity herself and was therefore not a reliable source. She asked what that was supposed to mean and that caused that Lestrade send her away with a few sharp words. To his surprise Sherlock realised he had almost given her an honest and unnerved answer about how it felt to be captured, tortured and incapacitated.

He felt bone tired when he opened the front door of 221 b, only still on his feet because of the dire need to report this all to John.

Probably, it would be inappropriate to wake him?

He had done that in the past and John had never been happy about it, he remembered, so he didn't. Instead, he made tea and copied the pictures he had taken from his phone to his laptop.

It was almost funny, how so many things about this case were about keys, ridiculous even.

.

It was almost six in the morning when he heard someone coming down the stairs.

Clearly John, according to the sound of the steps, not getting up but heading to the bathroom.

Great, so he could tell him without waking him.

But the figure that moved directly through the dark kitchen and headed towards the loo made him frown. John was not in his pyjamas.

Two minutes later the doctor seemed to take the same route back but Sherlock stepped into the kitchen to report the news.

"John, I…" he started, but the sight of his former flatmate made him frown, again.

John was in the same trousers and shirt he had worn before, though they were heavily rumpled now.

Sherlock switched on the light and John winced, "Shit, Sherlock."

"What happened?"

"What? Nothing? I had to use the bathroom."

Sherlock looked at his face. John's eyes were swollen and looked tiny and red, his shirt was half tucked into his trousers and half hanging loose. The other man turned away.

"No, wait. What did you do?"

"I slept for a change, you should try it sometimes. And now I'd like to continue doing that."

"It did you no good going by your looks."

John tried to vanish into the stairway but Sherlock carefully blocked his way.

"We found some new evidence, an important new lead."

"Great," John sounded as if he thought it was actually the opposite.

"I want you to come with me."

"What, now? Not interested."

"Er…," Sherlock noted that John looked really horrible, "No, bit later."

"Later is good. Now let me go back to sleep."

"What happened, did you drink?"

"No?"

"Did you fight with Mary?"

"Hell, no!"

"Are you sick?"

That made John stop on the first step of the stairs.

"No, but… I've been better."

Sherlock didn't know what to say about that, so he decided to be practical.

"Oh… Er, Mary said some 'stuff is in the bag'."

"Really? You spoke to her?" John seemed to realise Sherlock would not let him go so easily and turned back around.

"No, just came back," the detective offered.

"Right, where's the note?"

"Kitchen."

John went back and read the fine scribbling, then headed towards the fridge.

"Did you eat?"

"I said I just returned."

"Just?… Define _just_."

"That's hardly…," Sherlock started but was interrupted immediately.

"Shut up and let's have dinner. I slept, so missed dinner, too," John sounded as bone tired as he felt.

"What? You slept since I left?"

"Not… the whole time, no," John answered slowly, busy not looking at him.

Sherlock frowned, had John had more bad nightmares? Had he cried? He surely looked like it. And he moved as if his shoulder was bothering him. Was he supposed to address the obvious to soothe him?

John did that to him, though Sherlock hated it. Would it be a nice gesture to return the _favour_?

When John had prepared the first plate and put it in the microwave he reached for a bag that was on the counter, obviously knowing what was in there he unpacked it.

It seemed to be medication and a moment later the doctor held out a blister pack to his former flatmate.

"One in the evening and one in the morning," he softly explained.

Sherlock hesitated a moment and then took the pills.

John turned away and filled a glass with water, then unboxed another blister and swallowed one of the pills from it without turning around, a second pill followed.

That was when Sherlock realised that John seemed not to have just _said_ that he'd take some meds, too out of sympathy.

This fact felt kind of odd with a good portion of shame on top. Seeing John swallow the pills felt awkward… and miserable.

The doctor seemed to share that sensation because he remained with his back to Sherlock, unpacking more things from the bag, he seemed tense.

The microwave binged but neither of them reacted.

Sherlock stared at the blister in his hand and realised John was probably anxious he'd refuse to take the medication. He knew the side effects would really get on his nerves, but if him taking them would make things easier for John he'd do it. When he had agreed he had not been completely sure he would, but _now_ he was, after thinking about it the whole night and now seeing John's hunched shoulders and puffy eyes.

He made the two steps so he stood directly next to his flatmate.

He popped one pill out of the packaging and reached for the glass John had just put down and which was still half full, then washed it down with the rest of the water.

He could feel John relax a bit next to him. The bitter neon green tension stayed in the room though, he drew breath to speak but then realised that every time when he had tried to ease some tension in awkward situations is had gone wrong, he had said the stupidest things and made it even worse… like in the bomb train, or at the cemetery in Baskerville. So he kept his mouth shut.

John braced himself on the counter with both hands, his head low, but he spoke instead.

"Thank you," his voice was hoarse and tired.

Sherlock frowned, what for? He just nodded, that was always okay and innocuous.

When his gaze fell onto the packages he noted that John was taking a different medication and he tried to remember which one was his and which one the other man's. The doctor had also taken a mild painkiller.

"Yours is different?"

"Yeah, don't mix them up, you won't like the side effects of mine."

"Why?"

"Er, don't make me explain this right now, not in the mood."

"'kay… Rough night, then?" Sherlock very carefully allowed his shoulder to briefly touch John's when he shifted from one leg to the other.

Now it was John's turn to nod silently.

"Shoulder?"

Another nod.

John had send him away because he had not wanted him to witness another bad night? Had wanted to vent alone? And the same was true for Mary? Had John felt like he himself had in Hamburg, alone and desperate, sick from his own worries?

Sherlock remembered he had looked similar those days. During the long hours of the trial his thoughts were restless and drifted into dark realms more often than not. It had been horrible and endless, it was also when he first registered that something might be out of the norm in the mind palace. He had retreated to it when he felt control was slipping and he needed a break from the endless lies of the accused and the back and forth of the attorneys.

The silence between him and John settled into something more softly aubergine and Sherlock felt how they both had relaxed a bit.

What would do John good? He had asked himself this so seldom before he once more found the database entries about this fact were so few he must seem very careless. He turned away from the sparse information and looked at the things John had done to soothe him, people tended to do to others what helped themselves, and found: the heavy warm hot thing, the doctor had introduced to him some days ago.*

He turned and headed for his room to get it.

A few nights ago he had used it on his own, he liked the weight, but thought it would be more soothing if it was at least three times as heavy as it was. He had never heard of those before and therefore googled the thing and it's uses and pros and cons.

Now he brought it with him and took the plate out of the microwave, replaced it with the pillow, hoping it would not take on the smell of the food.

John was preparing the second portion now and looked at him curiously when he registered the oven was occupied.

"Wait with that a bit, I can't eat that right now, I need some tea first," Sherlock muttered while filling the kettle. John let the plate sink.

"Yeah, me too… Guess dinner can wait," he placed it back on the counter.

"How about you take me through what you found out?"

"Oh," John had actually asked! Asking for a distraction? "Of course. We observed the house for the first half of the night, it was rather boring."

"And Greg didn't let you smoke in the car."

"No."

They sat down at the laptop while the detective started to explain what they had found in detail.

Two minutes later they were interrupted by the kettle and Sherlock returned to the kitchen to prepare the tea.

He brought the warm pillow with him and held it out to John.

"Want that kernel sachet?"

John stared up at him, frowning at first, but then he realised what his former flatmate was holding in his hand and took it.

"Yes, Thank you. That's…. good. Good thinking. Ta."

He draped it over his shoulder while Sherlock brought the two mugs.

They discussed everything that had happened during the night and about ten in the morning finally managed to have dinner.

...

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* if you want to read this, it's in Chapter 29 of the first part of this story 'Lesson in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability'.

Constructive criticism welcome. Please review if you like my story.


	31. Chapter 31

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_ CursedLyfe: here finally comes the chapter I promised you would come :), wrote this quite in the beginning, shortly before I divided the story into two parts, which was soo long ago._

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**Chapter 31**

**Saturday afternoon**

After discussing the news about the case, during which Sherlock asked John twice if he'd come with him later, they headed towards their beds. Sherlock was not convinced it was a good idea, but John told him to get some rest since Lestrade would call sooner or later and then they'd be needed well rested.

They slept until the afternoon, when Mycroft called Sherlock to inform him they'd do a cooperate search operation on the grounds of the storage area, which was under surveillance since the early hours of the morning.

Sherlock was not at all amused about the fact that his brother was more and more involved into the investigation and ranted about it for about half an hour.

When a big black limousine stopped in front of the flat Sherlock briefly greeted his brother and then told him they'd be following in a cab.

John just rolled his eyes and said nothing.

When the consulting detective saw it, he explained, "I'm not in the mood to have conversation with my nosy brother."

A bit later they arrived at the meeting point, were Lestrade's team was preparing, a few streets away from the entrance. There they also met the manager of the facility, who spoke with an American accent, Mr Decker. They started to go through the logs and pick out every unit that had been entered during the past week and then they followed the man around who let them to said units.

Mycroft had managed to get a search warrant, but left after helping to organise the whole operation. Two of his agents stayed to help, since he had to do more important government business.

They split up into teams of two, Sherlock and Lestrade, Sally and one of the agents, John and a young constable, and finally the manager named Robinson with the second agent. Some young constables stayed with the cars.

At first Sherlock had refused to split up with John, but Lestrade and Mycroft had not allowed the two of them to go as a team without an 'official' investigator for legal reasons. The area was rather large and making a team of three and render the agent useless because no one was supposed to investigate without backup was nonsense for all, except of course, Sherlock. When they were all equipped with radios they started the search.

.

In the first half hour Sherlock kept constant contact to John, it was almost funny what he asked or reported every other three or four minutes, seemingly just to stay in contact. Lestrade threatened to take the radio from him if he continued to use it like this, but more in a joking way. The DI was glad that the two men appeared to have straightened some things out and that Sherlock was behaving quite nicely to his former flatmate, though not to everybody else. The atmosphere between them had clearly changed for the better.

The first moment Greg had seen them when they had arrived, he had held his breath, they both looked so much worse for wear, that he feared it was getting worse between them, but John had assured they were making real progress lately when they had a quiet minute and Sherlock was arguing with Mycroft out of hearing range.

It was getting dusky early, nothing unusual for mid December, they were lucky is wasn't raining.

When John hadn't heard from Sherlock for fifteen minutes he tried to contact him, Lestrade reported they were finished with the third block and heading to the next in the rear, nothing interesting so far. Similar reports came in from the other groups.

Sherlock kept radio silence and the doctor assumed they were busy or Greg had taken the radio away, that was until Sally called to ask if they had spoken to Lestrade or Sherlock since neither was answering.

John went to high alert immediately and Sally and the agent, as well as John and the constable headed towards the area the DI and Sherlock were supposed to search.

After almost ten minutes of searching they had neither managed to re-establish contact nor seen any hint of them. John was getting seriously nervous now.

When they heard Sally yell they ran to the next row of units and found her next to an angular shaped car, that was clearly built in the mid-eighties.

It was only the third car they saw in the area up to now and the other two ones had been attended and the drivers were loading or unloading supplies. This red vehicle seemed abandoned, no open doors, no gaping unit entries and no one to be seen or heard.

When they concentrated on listening John heard a small sound from the car and raised his hands to signal the other three to stay silent.

A soft knocking sound repeated.

"Shit, someone's in the trunk!" Sally stated the obvious and drew her weapon. "Secure the area, I'll call for someone to bring tools. Whoever put someone in there is probably still around."

She stepped a few metres away, observing their surroundings carefully, as did the other two men, their weapons also drawn.

John heard a moan, and it definitely didn't sound like a woman. He stepped to the boot and slowly pressed the lock, which caused the agent to flinch.

"Careful, might be a trap."

"Unlikely with this class of criminal, I mean we're not dealing with Moriarty here," John assured him.

The boot lid opened and John carefully shone light into the gap.

Another sound and now John was absolutely sure who that voice belonged to.

"Sherlock, is it safe to open the lid?"

"Hmmm," came a moaned affirmation and the doctor opened it all the way.

"Shit!"

Sherlock was in the deep boot, dishevelled, gagged, bound and in an awkward position.

John spoke into his radio while he shoved the gag down Sherlock's chin so the man could speak.

"Sally, boot is open, bring cutters, though. Sherlock's in the trunk."

"Lestrade?"

"Don't know yet," Sherlock, where is Lestrade?"

"'ere," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and he struggled to get up. John grabbed his arm and dragged him upwards, assuming Sherlock meant somewhere nearby and would tell them as soon as possible.

"Are you hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head and then one of the agents started to yell about a hundred metres away from them.

"I can handle this, go help him, maybe they found Lestrade or the suspect," John ordered and the constable ran towards the agent.

Sherlock awkwardly stumbled to sit up and the doctor was quite alarmed about his unusual clumsiness and his glassy eyes.

"Sherlock, have you been drugged?"

"Not…. John!...You need to…" Sherlock tried to stumble out of the boot backwards.

"Calm down, are you okay?"

John looked into his eyes, his pupils were dilated and he seemed disoriented, not good.

"Where's Lestrade?"

Sherlock was struggling to get his second foot over the edge of the open space.

"Help…"

John frowned, his friend had a bleeding laceration somewhere, since the side of his neck was coloured red with blood. He pointed his torch at it to see better in the dim light.

But what he saw in Sherlock's face was far more alarming, it was pure horror.

He reached out and untied the other man's hands, that were luckily only bound with a greasy bandanna. Meanwhile he watched Sherlock, nervous about his friend's odd behaviour. He had seen a similar expression on his face in Baskerville, but this was more desperate, more anxious.

Was he having another panic attack?

Why?

Had something happened to the DI?

"Lestrade… he's…" Sherlock panted, "…drugged. I tried to roll off him to give him space to breathe… but…" Sherlock swayed dangerously and almost collapsed back against the car. Then, with now free hands he turned around and reached into the large boot, nearly collapsing in the process again.

"What the hell is happening, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade!" the other man dived deep into the trunk.

"Jesus!" John finally understood that Lestrade must be still in there. The boot was deeper than it looked.

"Get him out!" Sherlock gulped and then continued to pant.

"Sally, I need you here, and I need you to send two more men to help me… and an ambulance," John spoke into the radio, clearly in commando mode and he leaned in, too, to examine the DI.

"No, I need to…" Sherlock tried to drag John away.

John gently lifted Greg's arm and felt for his pulse, uncovered his face by doing this, there was more blood and John wondered who was the one bleeding.

"Greg, can you hear me, mate? Is he otherwise injured, Sherlock?"

"He was drugged, we need to get him to safety."

"I can see that. Are there more injuries, where is the blood coming from?"

"Me."

John turned towards Sherlock, who's tone was so very agitated and panicky that he feared the DI must be half-dead.

"What did they give him?" the doctor urged.

"The cocktail… I don't know, not sure I mean. Paralysed him… probably…" the detective stammered.

"Hang on!" John grabbed his shoulders. "Concentrate! Was he otherwise injured? Do we need to worry about spine injuries or something else equally serious?"

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment and when he said nothing John let go of him, trying to find out more about Greg's condition himself.

"He was… he was fine until he drugged us… cocktail… the victim," Sherlock babbled, leaning heavy against the chrome bumper, "He needs… We need to help him breathe… he might… stopped breathing… I tried to roll off him, but 'm heavy enough to hurt him… don't know…" Sherlock looked very shaken and had a wild expression in his face.

"Alright, Sherlock, easy, you need to tell me what happened, so calm down," John instructed, while he gently took out everything that was in the boot with Greg, another coat, an old first aid kit, some oily fabrics, some shoes and a large bundle of bin liners. He was well aware those were evidence, but first priority right now was to make sure Greg was safe.

"Why are you afraid he might stop breathing? The cocktail didn't do that before."

"Obviously another one," Sherlock sounded weak and John was surprised when he too leaned into the space. "Greg? John is here, he's got you. He'll take care of you."

"You think he can hear you?" John tried to get Sherlock into a conversation while he continued to monitor the DI's breathing and heartbeat, to keep Sherlock busy and answering. John could sense something was definitely wrong.

"No. I know he can… He's just paralysed, like all the other victims, he drugged us… I mean I drugged him… as I said… could you actually _try_ to listen!"

"You're making no sense…" John muttered, which was also very alarming. "But first things first."

"First…" Sherlock mumbled, "First…" then his voice suddenly raised with even more distress, but John was busy checking Greg's breathing, which was shallow and not healthy, neither was his pulse, but he seemed not to be in imminent danger.

"Sherlock, what's happening?" he grabbed Sherlock by the arms.

"First…!" Sherlock's eyes widened in what seemed to be even almost maniac. The wild look in Sherlock's eyes had not gone away, it was still there, like a cornered animal. John knew that look, he had seen it often enough in wounded soldiers, who were so stressed out they were loosing the touch with reality.

Sherlock didn't react to him directly, his eyes wandered around wildly, he was pale and trembling.

"Look at me," John gently took the other mans chin and moved it into his direction. "What's happening?"

"I… We need to safe him _first_… I can't let him kill us. We need to… First, we need to _go_. Now. We have not much time left," Sherlock picked up the first aid kit in such a hurry he almost fell over.

"What? Time?"

Sherlock shoved the doctor's hand away and headed towards the driver's door, when he slit into the seat John finally understood what he was planning.

"Shit, Sherlock!"

"Get the first aid kit, and the coat, evidence, close the trunk, he'll be safe in there," Sherlock closed the door, "Get in!" Sherlock yelled.

"What? No! We need to wait for the ambulance. He needs medical attention!"

"No. We need to get him out of here!" Sherlock's eyes were wide in panic.

"What? Why?"

"The warehouse will explode. Probably sooner than later!"

"Shit! Shit," John fumbled for his phone and reached for his radio. "Bloody hell. Sorry Greg, we need to get you out off here, we'll hurry. Stay calm!"

John gently closed the lid and ran towards the passenger side.

"Stop by whoever you see, we need to warn them, too," John realised they didn't have keys, but it was not a problem, Sherlock was already fumbling with some wires and starting the vehicle by hot-wiring. It took only moments and the engine started.

"Good, then, go," he slammed his door shut and Sherlock accelerated ruggedly, the tires screeched and they headed towards the entrance.

John spoke into the radio and warned everybody of the danger.

They had seen no other agent during the ride.

When they reached the entrance the squad cars that had been waiting outside came towards them. Sally was already organising an evacuation, but when she saw the car heading towards her, she reacted fast and ran back towards the police cars, signalling them to stop.

Sherlock slowed and John yelled out of the window. It was a bit of a chaos.

"Bomb, get away!"

"Go, go now!" Sherlock screamed at two more police men and they also ran back towards their cars.

Then the consulting detective stepped onto the gas pedal and they sped out of the warehouse area.

"Sally, do you know where the others went? The agent yelled for us and they headed to assist him," John spoke into his radio.

"Yes, they are following someone who ran off," Sally answered.

"On foot?" John winced when Sherlock took a turn with much too much speed.

"One of the cars is following them, but yes."

John looked at his former flatmate. Sherlock was still not looking good and not handling the car very stable. He shouldn't have let him drive.

"Sherlock, where is the bomb?"

"Storage unit, booby trap with an additional time trigger. He's gone. She wasn't here."

"Who?"

"The victim… concentrate, John."

"You said he drugged you, too, are you feeling faint?"

"No."

"Then what's happening, why are you so… shaky?"

"Can we get to safety before having such a non-sense conversation?" Sherlock spit.

"Sure."

It took a moment for him to realise Sherlock didn't stop the car when they had left the area.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Home, where else."

"No! We need to get Greg out of the boot and to the nearest hospital."

"You can treat him at home."

"No! Stop the car!"

"I'll go to the hospital then."

"That's ten minutes, we need to make sure he's safe first."

Sherlock stepped onto the brakes, not too subtle and John jumped out of the car.

He had the trunk open and was trying to manhandle Greg into a sitting position until Sherlock managed to even exit the driver seat. He swayed and supported himself on the side of the car.

"Think you can radio Sally to get here, I need help getting him out?" John asked.

"I'll do it."

"Don't be ridiculous, you can barely stand! Now get on the radio."

Moments later he heard him mumble into the small device. The doctor meanwhile had shone his torchlight carefully into Greg's open eyes and they were reacting quite sluggish.

Sherlock returned to them and started to try to assist John lifting him out.

"He needs to get our of there immediately. He must be a bit stressed by now and I don't want to prolong this any longer than absolutely necessary."

John frowned.

Before, Sherlock hadn't seemed to care and now _this_?

With practiced ease Sherlock grabbed the DI under the shoulders while he supported his head. John agreed, better get him out as soon as possible.

"Are you sure you can actually do this, dropping him could be really bad."

"I am, now move!" Sherlock ordered impatiently.

Gently and slowly they lifted the other man out, who groaned softly.

When they placed him on the ground, flat on his back, Sherlock immediately knelt down next to his head and cradled it carefully in his hands.

"Greg? I'm sorry that I'm heavy… Ambulance will be here soon. No need to worry, this will wear off without complications, just stay calm and relax. "

John almost dropped the first aid kit he had just fetched from the backseat, Sherlock like this was _not_ normal. Greg's eyes were open but he didn't look as if he was really aware, his gaze was stiff.

Then suddenly a loud explosion sounded in the distance, it even made the ground tremble under their feet and John heard glass shattering and sirens going off.

Out of reflex he hunched down, only to see Sherlock doing the same, they were protectively kneeling over Lestrade's torso and head. Though it was unlikely they'd be hit by anything from this distance both their reflexes had been to protect the man down on the ground.

The detective was lowering his arms and lifting his head, looking first if John was okay and then up and around to locate the explosion.

When he was sure they were safe and no debris would rain down on them he formed a loose ball from his scarf and placed it under the DI's head, gently lifting it. The touch clearly signalled: honestly worried and deeply caring. Since Sherlock's fingers were shaking the whole thing looked even more bizarre.

The doctor was reminded he needed to take care off them _both_, when Sherlock's hand started patting Lestrade's cheek.

"Lestrade?"

John watched the rise and fall of Greg's chest and counted his breaths while he reached for his wrist, taking his pulse, too.

"Let's position him on his side, so he can breathe easier."

"You heard that? Blink if you can understand us," Sherlock suggested in a strained tone, staring into the DI's eyes and waiting for a reply.

"What makes you think he can blink?"

"He did before… and because I know the composition of the drug."

"What, you said before you don't know? You're making no sense."

"Explaining: later!"

Very slowly the eyes of the prone man closed and opened again.

"He's fully aware, can hear and sense everything, just can't move. It must be _very_ scary, we are aware, Greg, but panicking will only make it much worse. So remain calm and we'll take care of everything," he explained to the other man, before taking his shoulder and head in his hands and helping John turn him into the recovery position.

Then rounded the man so that he could look into his eyes again, he leaned down.

"All good then? You know the routine, blink once for yes and twice for no."

John was still stunned by Sherlock's behaviour. He seemed about to keel over any minute himself, pale and shaky, but still he cared for the Detective Inspector in a way John had never thought he was able to care for another human being… Oh, not quite correct! He had just not really witnessed it because he _himself_ was the only one who usually was on the receiving end… and harmed or in pain and therefore distracted. But Sherlock had been like this when he was hurt, or with Mrs Hudson, though she had never been harmed like this. Though Sherlock's reaction to her being hurt by the American agents was a very deep insight in his feelings for her. John heard the sirens in the distance and a moment later Sally and an ambulance arrived.

"Sherlock, sit down before you fall over, would you?"

John tapped his shoulder. Sherlock had a strange haunted, wild look on his face, his eyes still more wide than normal.

"Greg? He's right, you'll be okay. Relax mate," he rubbed the DI's upper arm.

A moment later they heard sirens in the distance and a police car came around the corner.

Sally jumped out and ran towards them as soon as it had stopped and bathed them in the front lights. Sherlock winced.

….

* * *

….

Please R&amp;R.


	32. Chapter 32

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Thanks for everyone who was so kind to leave feedback! Made me feel warm inside with gratefulness. You're great guys :)_

_There were several people who asked very nicely for me to update soon, so here it is. I hurried to do the fine-tuning and insomnia was very helpful, too. :)_

_So brace for some odd acting Sherlock, fluff and angst, too, I fear._

_…__._

* * *

_…__._

**Chapter 32 **

**The hospital**

Sally froze when she saw Sherlock on his knees on the wet pavement, getting his trousers and coat soaked and having a hand resting on Lestrade's head and looking like a deer in the headlights.

"What's going on?" she asked, carefully stepping closer.

"They have been drugged, Lestrade needs oxygen and monitoring," John explained to her and the ambulance crew, that had just poured out of the vehicle. When they tried to shove Sherlock away the man almost lost it.

He yelled at them not to touch him and not to do anything without announcing it to the DI. But the paramedics seemed only to understand that he was very agitated and therefore also part of the emergency, therefore in need of help, too, which made the situation just worse.

John had concentrated to brief the emergency doctor about the little he knew, but now the need too step in before things had a chance to escalate further was obvious. Greg was in the other doctor's hand he needed to take care of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, calm down, they won't listen to you if you act like this. And I have to admit I need to know why you are so… tense right now, too," the doctor stepped in between the paramedics and the detective.

"I am not tense," Sherlock spit. "They are idiots, and they are _not_ listening and I can't trust them to behave professionally and take care of Graham."

"For the record, the name is Greg, Greg Lestrade," John addressed the medical personnel, "he is a DI with Scotland Yard. He has been drugged with a paralysing substance, as has my friend Sherlock," he gestured towards the consulting detective.

"I'm John Watson, MD, here's my license," he pulled it out and handed it to one of the medics that were crowding around Sherlock, "and he is not good with people in his personal space, so back off a bit. He can tell us more about the drug."

John aimed to calm everyone down, when Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he took a deeper breath, visibly trying to calm down John stepped closer and reached for his shoulder.

"What were you drugged with?"

Sherlock said nothing, instead fumbled for his coat pocket and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper full of notes from different pens and directions.

"What's this?"

"The ingredients of the drugs the perpetrator used on the other victims."

John handed the paper to one of the paramedics, who, now also visibly calmer, stepped closer.

"They were probably given something similar to this," he explained to the frowning man.

"Oh. He's still standing?" the man raised his eyebrows and looked shocked.

"Took an antidote," Sherlock mumbled.

"What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Had it in my pocket, managed to drink it before he injected me."

"I don't understand…" the female medic said.

"You don't need to, just do as I say. The DI is fully aware and needs you to explain to him everything you do, to prevent to make him panic. Being paralysed and helpless is quite a frightening experience and he needs you to behave accordingly."

"Okay, Sherlock, we will, we are professionals. We handle this sort of stuff every day. And your friend here will also assist us if need arises, so why don't you sit down in the meantime," the doctor who was examining Greg said in an overly soothing voice, only briefly looking up from his patient. He must be trained in de-escalation, though chances where high this would not at all work with one Sherlock Holmes.

"You'll not touch me. Take care of him, he's in need," Sherlock's voice was shaking as well as his hands.

"Eh, guys, I will take care of him. Keep a distance," John was not ready to tell him they were freaking Sherlock out, and the longer this lasted the more sure John was that Sherlock's behaviour was not entirely a drug reaction, maybe not even half of it. He was reluctant to tell them it was suspected PTSD, too, because he was sure Sherlock would not take that well.

John stepped closely to Sherlock, just standing in front of him. So the detective concentrated on him, though he seemed not able to establish eye contact, his gaze was still glassy and scampering blindly through the area.

"Sherlock, care to share what's freaking you out?" John said in low voice so no one else could hear.

The other man started to slowly shake his head but then aborted the movement halfway through when John said softly, "Tell me, please."

"Smell… is making me… jittery…"

"Which one?"

Now Sherlock shook his head properly.

"Where do you hurt?"

"No pain."

"You have a bump on the back of your head, it's bleeding. That's probably why the medics think you need help, and I do too, so sit."

Sherlock shook his head once more, still not looking at him. John took his arm and slowly dragged him towards the ambulance.

"Could you give me some sterile wipes or something to clean his wound?" he addressed one of the medics who were now strapping Greg to a gurney, explaining every movement to him, as suggested.

"Think it's urgent? We can do that in A&amp;E if it isn't, we're ready to leave."

"Yesss," Sherlock hissed without hesitation and climbed into the ambulance, even before they had the change to load Greg into it, and sat down at the seat at the head of the gurney.

When one of the paramedics was about to protest, the emergency doctor addressed him. "It's alright, I'll make do, take my car and I'll meet you there," he entered the large back of the vehicle and helped them fasten the gurney, working around Sherlock.

"I'm making loads of exceptions here, gentleman, don't make me regret this. Dr. Watson, you can sit in the front."

John entered the car while informing Sally briefly about what had happened during the past minutes, she had been busy on the radio the whole time, reporting and organising things. The other team must be still in pursuit of somebody.

Moments later the ambulance sped off.

.

Upon their arrival Sherlock had calmed down a bit, but was still biting off every one's head for not being aware of Greg's needs and entering his space.

Mycroft had called shortly before their arrival and Sherlock had handed the phone to John to deal with him through the small window in the wall of the vehicle.

Now they were sitting in the centre of an emergency area where the curtains were drawn back in the five cubicles that contained luckily no other patients, and were waiting for further treatment, nurses were rushing in and out, taking readings from Greg and connecting him to the stationary equipment.

When Greg gave a low moan Sherlock once more yelled at the nurse that she needed to tell him what she was doing. When another orderly entered and started to remove Greg clothes Sherlock finally lost it, yelled at the man for being stupid and that this was not at all necessary. John had tried to interfere by telling Sherlock to calm down and relax everything a bit.

Moments later an angry looking doctor, who's nametag said Gonzales, entered.

"Mr Holmes, if you continue to harass my staff I'll have you removed. We're quite aware you're agitated, but you need to let us treat your friend without disturbance. Would you please follow me to the waiting area, or if you please, to another room where a nurse can take care of your wound."

"No!"

"Sherlock!" John said in a warning tone, "Let's go."

He took Sherlock by the arm and gently shoved him in front of him towards the door. But the other man immediately turned around, anger in his eyes and stared John right in the eyes for a change.

"Let's go, everything is fine, you're not yourself. Let's go outside for a minute. Maybe you need a cigarette?" it was against John's idea of what the other man should do at the moment, but the situation definitely needed an easing of tension.

"Your yelling is probably stressing Greg out more than the nurses. He's not as sensible to touch as you are. Come on. Let's get a break."

Sherlock looked down, defeated, and nodded, then allowed John to guide him towards the large open doors.

Dr Gonzales seemed to realise this was more than a pissed patient and eyed them intensely on their way out.

John gave him and apologetically look and nodded.

The consulting detective headed right towards the hall instead of following the nurse who showed them where to go and walked fast into the open space of the foyer.

Before he was even outside, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a crumpled box of cigarettes.

He put the smoke into his mouth and lit it right in front of the doors, but to John's relief then continued through them and to the smoking area.

It had started to drizzle and John briefly wondered if forcing Sherlock to take a look at his wound first was worth the effort. It had stopped to bleed some time ago and therefore could wait a few moments longer. But rain was probably not the best option, on the other hand in combat or other similar missions such small wounds were not treated until the action was over, the contrast how things were treated in 'civil life' seemed sometimes like overreacting to John - as it was to Sherlock - but the normal hospital staff would only shake their heads about the duo's definition of 'wounds that need treatment soon.'

First on John agenda was currently to take care of Sherlock's mental state and find out how much of the drug he had been given and what the hell he had taken to prevent being paralysed.

He spotted a bench nearby and guided Sherlock towards it.

"Sherlock, what did he give you?"

"Drug cocktail."

"What makes you think it is the same he gave the other victims?"

"Nothing, but the antidote worked."

"Which antidote?"

"The one I spend two weeks to make… Really, John? You didn't listen to anything I told you about the drug, did you?"

"Sorry, I tried, but I thought it was a waste of time to figure out what it was exactly."

"Obviously not, saved our lives."

"Probably did."

"Why are you so worked up? Side effect? Or the smell you mentioned earlier?"

"Put in some stimulant to counter effect the lethargy the drug causes."

"What exactly did you put in there?"

Sherlock pulled another crumpled paper from his coat and handed it over, on it was a quite accurate receipt for the antidote.

"Did you give any of this to Greg?"

"No time, pure luck I got the chance to drink it," Sherlock inhaled, "Didn't even knew if it would work fast enough that way, was supposed to go into a vein. Also… wouldn't have risked to give him untested drugs of my own creation."

John bit his lips, trying not to rip his head off for the stunt. He was right, they'd probably not be alive if Sherlock's hadn't managed to make himself be heard. Until John's team or Sally would have had the idea to search the vehicle the storage might have exploded already and they'd all be casualties by now.

"I need you to promise me something."

Sherlock just stared at the ground.

"I need you to practice a certain degree of self preservation. On a level a bit higher than you did before. That means to do nothing where the chance is high to get hurt or killed, no drugs, no deliberate damage of your body. No using of untested drugs that might kill you. You understand? If you can't do your best to try to keep yourself alive, I can't do this. Are you willing to take care of protecting yourself from harm?"

"I already got that last time you told me… day before yesterday," Sherlock grumbled. "But my work includes dangerous…"

"No, that's not what I meant! I meant reasonable self preservation."

"I'm not trying to kill myself."

"Not actively, but there is a passive way, which I was referring to."

Sherlock nodded with a battered expression on his face.

"I need you to say it."

"I will practise self preservation, John."

John winced about the unnerved tone, but it was a start and better than nothing.

"Anything else?" Sherlock inhaled.

"You'll inform me of your plans, no leaving me out and just doing it. You could have told me you were carrying this around, we could have had it tested."

"Oh please, this would have taken months. You know how long it takes to get approval to drugs for human use. That will slow us down to a degree where detective work can't function, at all."

"I don't mean like every tiny course of action, I mean the important ones. We were lucky with this one."

"And how am I supposed to know what you deem important and what not?"

"Everything that includes danger to our lives, plans how to proceed with investigations, telling me you are planning a break in, stuff like that."

"Which means not working at all, that's not the solution, won't work. And if I hadn't taken it…"

"Yes, I know, but we don't know yet what was in the cocktail and what lingering effects there might be, and you don't know what might be the side effects of the cocktail you made," John didn't know what else to say. "Therefore you need to come in with me, let them draw blood, let me take care of your head and then we'll see. This would be the right course for self preservation right now. So grasp the nettle and get it over with. Besides, let them do their work might be the way to stay with Greg. I could argue that in his state he needs familiar faces around."

"Point made," Sherlock emphasised the consonants as he did when unnerved and flipped the butt into a nearby ashtray, with a grumpy expression he headed back inside.

.

Greg's jacket and shirt had been removed, his torso was bare and he was only wearing his trousers and socks now. He had an oxygen mask over his face and his chest was full of cardiac monitor pads and other electrodes.

John saw Sherlock tense immediately once he saw the DI in this vulnerable state and connected to a row of beeping medical instruments.

Greg turned tired eyes in their direction and Sherlock stepped to the bed.

"I'm not sure you're actually better here and now. It would have maybe been a better idea to bring you to Baker Street and just let you sleep it off. But John didn't allow me, so not my decision, sorry."

Greg's mouth twitched a tiny bit and Sherlock grinned down at him.

"I see your ability to move is improving, good. Why the hell didn't they give you a blanket, it's cold!" Sherlock complained.

"Sit," John gestured towards the adjacent gurney, then, "Greg, you want a blanket?"

When the DI blinked once, John addressed the nurse. She nodded and pointed to the back of Sherlock's head, "I'll suture that in a minute."

"No, you won't," Sherlock hissed without turning around to look at her. He had sat down but was staring at Lestrade's face.

The DI grunted in disapproval.

"John will do it, or no one will."

The nurse asked John to see his license again and then allowed him to do it, not really fond for any more tantrums, the paramedics must have informed her about all that had happened earlier, or maybe Mycroft had called ahead? She brought a tablet with all the necessary equipment and left John to it, though she or other staff looked around the corner every two or three minutes to make sure everyone was okay.

Greg just watched them out of the corner of his eyes. When John had just soaked some wipes with iodine solution Sherlock suddenly stood up again.

"You'll get a cramp in your eyes that way, you want your head to be turned a bit into this direction so you can see what is going on?"

Greg nodded with his eyelids and Sherlock - very carefully not to disturb the tubes and wires and not to cause him any discomfort - slowly turned his head with both hands.

"Comfy?"

Another blink.

Sherlock hopped back onto the gurney without looking at John, who was once more surprised about the TLC Sherlock was exhibiting, but quite aware Sherlock would do the same for him. Just that when he was hurt he probably was not able to give it enough attention. Sherlock had acted in similar ways to care for him on the few occasions he was injured, like when he had been suffering from multiple scorpion bites. Back then the fact that Sherlock _wanted_ to care for another human being had actually taken him by surprise, since it was the first time he had intimately made contact with this side of the detective. He knew Sherlock was unskilful and inexperienced with it, but he was caring deeply for his friends.

John had never found out how he and the DI became friends and what had happened between them before he had met Sherlock, but he now decided he definitely would ask later.

When John didn't continue his work Sherlock turned around and looked at him, John's face must have shown his surprise and his thoughts because Sherlock became insecure immediately.

"Not good? I asked before I touched him," he defended his actions.

"No, Sherlock, it's fine. It was nice, actually. It's fine. Now let me take care of this laceration and tell me how it happened," John started to clean the wound.

"Let's do this when Lestrade is able to talk and Sally is here to write it down."

John frowned, this was not like the other man to hold back how he had saved the day with an self-made antidote.

Sherlock was stone silent suddenly, it made John lean forward to look at his face, he saw the detective had paled and small beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

"What's happening?" John asked in a low and gentle tone.

But Sherlock did not react.

The doctor then stood up again to stand in front of his sitting friend and look into his face.

Sherlock was once more staring blindly into space, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

"Sherlock? Hey?"

No reaction.

With raising concern John wondered if this might be an episode of dissociation or if he was having a flashback.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

But he just stared into space.

John didn't want to raise his voice or alarm the staff because everything would go downhill fast if he did, he heard the beeping of Greg's heart monitor speed up.

"It's fine Greg, he'll be back in a few moments. It's gonna be okay," he tried show a confidence he didn't felt, because this was causing him a lot of apprehension.

Sherlock had not taken it easy the last times he had zoned out like this. The last thing he needed was to have the staff interfere. They'd do the opposite he needed if he freaked out, so John's primary goal was to get this under control as fast as possible without anyone noticing.

"Sherlock, come back to me," John said.

"Hey, come on, don't do this," he started to carefully touch Sherlock's shoulder and when nothing bad happened gently rubbed up and down his upper arm, to give him some external stimuli.

He sighed when Sherlock blinked.

"It's okay. Take a deep breath."

The detective blinked once more and his gaze moved up to John's face, it changed from disoriented to disgusted within three seconds.

"Don't!"

"What's happening?"

"Nothing, go on and fix the wound," Sherlock hissed and looked him directly in the eyes, the doctor knew that warning look, it was the same he had given on their first case when Lestrade had faked a drugs bust, so he went back to work.

"How much does it hurt?"

"It doesn't. So feel free to go on any time soon."

"What is it then?"

"Not now and not here."

This meant the problem was definitely about a trigger or something, John had not discussed this with his former flatmate before but the problem had to be addressed sooner or later.

"Alright," he agreed and focussed on the emergency trolley, fetching a battery powered pulse-ox and a kit for drawing blood. Not bothering with asking, he clipped the thing onto Sherlock's finger and studied the readings for a moment before returning to cleaning the wound. Sherlock just rolled his eyes but didn't comment.

By the time the wound was sutured and covered by a small dressing Lestrade was able to manage to move his fingers a bit.

John drew blood and signed several forms that admitted them both, the usual paperwork, without informing his friend about it.

When he was finished an hour later Sherlock had entertained Greg by telling him about a stupid case from years ago and had not shown any more odd symptoms. Greg was able to move his head and rudimentary use his speech, though it was hard to understand due to the slurring of the words. John smiled at the idea to keep the DI's mind occupied like this, Sherlock's care was heart-warming, as were the occasions John remembered when he had been the recipient during a flashback he had many years ago.

Another twenty minutes and a case later Sally arrived with Mycroft in her tow.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked without introductions.

"Get your dictation machine, I will not explain this twice," Sherlock addressed Sally, who headed back to her car to get the equipment.

…

* * *

…

_I just wanted to point out this drug is of course completely fictional, there are drugs that can paralyse, but not like this - as far as I know. I'm no doctor, have no medical degree and my knowledge is what I learned during internships, from medical personal in my surroundings or as a patient. _

_My knowledge about PTSD is only what I learned due to the fact that I have to live with it, for over fifteen years now. I read books after I was diagnosed (only a few years ago) but most of this story is the result of trying to cope without help before the diagnosis._

_._

_If you want to read the short stories I wrote about John's PTSD episodes, go to my profile and look for the early 'Lessons in Friendship' stories._

_._

_I'd love to hear what you think. Please review. _


	33. Chapter 33

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

* * *

_._

**Chapter 33**

"We found a unit with a car parked in front, went into the hall, knocked at the door. No response. The door was open, when we entered, it was all dark inside, lights didn't work, used the torches," Sherlock reported the events of the late afternoon.

"Lestrade went in first, had his gun out. The space was quite large, the view was blocked by high stakes of euro-pallets, up to the ceiling, formed a wall we had to go around. I had barely passed it when something knocked me down from behind," Sherlock continued.

"I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a drug lab in the rear, but it was too dark to see any details. He ambushed us from behind, was waiting in the dark."

.

Sherlock blinked, the first thing that entered his consciousness was that something hurt.

He felt ugly and a brown beige muddy taste of distress was in his mouth. It was a struggle to understand what was happening.

There was movement nearby… and voices.

Steps were coming closer and someone yelled an order.

So, not home and in bed, this was definitely sub optimal.

His hands were picked up and something was wrapped around his wrists, in a caring way.

Sherlock's muddled mind started to make him suck in air in distress.

Something bad was happening.

Bound hands meant _loss of control_ and that was a worst case scenario.

All kinds of alarms that had saved his life countless times, especially while out there fighting Moriarty's web, kicked in. He was sure he was still there, dismantling said weg, until he heard _Lestrade_ speaking. The DI's voice immediately dragged him back into reality.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock suppressed the dizziness and the pain and opened his eyes.

The space he was lit dimly, but it brought back the memory of his current location.

Euro-pallets and what looked like a chemistry lab… Right, case, paralysed victims, perpetrator…?

Something in his mind kicked into gear before he was fully aware. His heartbeat gained quite an unnerving intensity and he breathed fast without intending to.

He was being bound, his hands, his most important tools, only barely able to function.

Though not bound so tight it'd hurt or kept him completely from moving his wrists.

"Switch on the lights. They'll work now," someone ordered in the distance, did he mean he was expected to get up?

Steps moved away.

He was lying on the ground, not really able to move anyway.

Something distracting was polluting the air.

The lights suddenly pinched his eyes and the turquoise pain it caused brought nausea, he bit his tongue to keep it at bay.

It took time to get some orientation back, he was disturbed by voices and movement.

When he struggled to sit up, his gaze caught the drug lab in the back, again, some hospital equipment was present, too.

It took a moment before he realised that on a low table near to him were several jet injectors, one looked like a military vaccination gun from the eighties and was connected via pressure hose to a large cylinder.

Sherlock had managed to lift himself into a half sitting position and now let himself fall back down to the ground, turning away from the voices.

He felt something rise, something he needed to keep in check. He struggled, without knowing why.

If this was their perpetrator, and he had no doubt it was, it was unlikely there were _no _paralysing drugs in those injectors.

He needed to act.

Now!

Fast!

Think!

He was glad his mind immediately provided him with the location of the vial of antidote he had made. Sure, it was definitely not safe to use it, but getting paralysed was more 'not safe' than his home-made remedy.

Protected from sight by his posture and his coat, he fumbled the vial out of his coat pocket and downed it's content. It was not supposed to be swallowed, but that was his only option right now.

Not a moment to soon, because a moment later he was thrust around by a leather boot. He barely managed to shove the empty vial under his thigh.

The man that was standing over him only distantly resembled to the person he and John had seen in the staircase, but after three seconds Sherlock was sure it was the same man. He had obviously undergone severe changes to his appearance, but his posture and outline remained the same.

He looked much older now, a moustache added to that, and his hair was dyed, he wore glasses and a suit, quite a changeover, not resembling the hoddied kid with the boyish face they had seen.

Lestrade was tied to a chair three metres away, but Sherlock had not the time to inspect the situation further, because something cold and metal was suddenly pressed to his temple.

"Get up!"

He struggled to get into a sitting position as fast as he could because the tone said 'or I will shoot you.'

Then something entered his mind that added to the doom of a worst case scenario: a smell.

He gagged, before he had time to understand what was happening panic flooded his every pore and he moaned in distress.

"Get up, now, or I'll make sure you _never_ will," someone yelled in the distance, and Sherlock's autopilot made him comply, he staggered to his feet.

"Pick up the injector at the right, the white one."

Sherlock briefly remembered he had seen this coming.

Slowly, to give the rest of the teams time to find them, he moved over, looking down on the needle-less apparatuses.

He wondered if he'd be able to manipulate it in a way to reduce the dose injected significantly or at all, but he had never seen this model and when he picked it up, the man stepped closer.

"No false moves!" he warned, but kept a safe distance.

"Inject him!… Just press it to his skin and press the trigger. Now!" he ordered.

Sherlock wondered if he'd be able to trigger it before it touched the skin of the DI.

"If you don't switch him off I'll shoot him. Bare his skin!"

So, no chance to fake it.

Sherlock ripped off Lestrade's shirt, a bit not good, this must be awkward for the other man.

"Sorry," he mumbled to the DI, before pressing the orifice to a part where it should work slower than it could somewhere else, but it was a minute difference.

The noise the thing made, caused them both to flinch, a soft popping sound.

"Good, now lie down on your stomach," the criminal ordered.

Sherlock hesitated, panic still lingering, making his world hazy.

"Get down!" the man screamed.

Slowly, Sherlock moved downward, his heart pounding.

Lestrade's breathing was way to fast… and loud, it was all he could hear, except the rushing noise in his ears.

He had barely made contact with the smooth surface when something was shoved into his mouth, it made breathing far more complicated all of a sudden.

Before he had time to adjust he felt the injector was pressed to the back of his neck, it hissed ominously and the load was pressed into Sherlock's body.

Sherlock felt panic take over, the ugly smell in his nostrils invaded his mind and floored everything else, not able to ship around it he had was overwhelmed by it and it was all he could process.

He didn't know how long he had been out of order.

It hurt.

Every fibre of his body was already kind of hypersensitive and the touch made him want to scream in agony, but he couldn't.

The drug was doing it's work, he was not able to move, and the panic rose to a level that forced him to retreat into his mind for what must have been several minutes.

He came back while he was manhandled onto an ancient looking metal table on casters. He was on his stomach and his head and legs hang over the edges.

When the movement started and he was rolled down the room his gaze fell onto the lab.

Something had changed, large gas cylinders were now lined up in a row, several tubes connected them to the equipment on the tables. Perpetrator planned an explosion, obviously.

Suddenly it was dark and it smelled like rain, he must have been rolled outside.

Why?

If the man planned to blow up the lab, why was he wheeled away? This would be the perfect way to get rid of his body.

Sherlock's heart was pounding so hard he feared he'd black out again, but he was sure that if that happened he'd be dead.  
Where was Lestrade?

He was dragged into a smaller space and the hard impact made him gasp. The smell changed from alarmingly bloody to oily and then… aftershave.

He needed a moment to get his bearings back, then he realised that the wind, that made his hairs stay on edge and his neck vibrate in disgust, must be Lestrade's breath.

He was laying on top of the DI.

He was hurting him this way!

Panic returned full force, made his breath freeze in his chest.

He reminded himself that panicking was the most stupid thing he could possibly do in this situation and that he needed to concentrate to save both their lifes.

The frustration when he realised he couldn't kill the anxiety and that _this_ might be actually what _would_ get them killed made him gag, it felt horrible.

Not only his body was paralysed by a drug, his mind was paralysing itself by stupid emotions.

Then his surroundings exploded with loud sound and movement.

They were in a boot and someone had just shut the lid with a bang!

Think!

His breathing staggered and he bit his lip to make the pain bring him back, out of the panic-zone.

He bit on his tongue next, hard!

Think!

He _could_ bit his tongue!

Which meant he was not _totally_ paralysed.

He needed to _think_!

He listened instead, afraid to hear what was going on.

No one could be heard nearby.

He tried to move, but his fingers only twitched.

How much time did they have until the storage unit would explode?

Some minutes, he guessed, until the man had time to run away by foot.

Not dumb, that idea.

A driving car _would_ draw attention. Getting out somewhere in the back by foot probably wouldn't.

Sherlock frantically tried to free his hands, wincing inwardly when he remembered that every movement he was glad he could do was probably hurting Lestrade further due to his body weight pressing down on the other man.

Lestrade was probably feeling as panicked and bad as he was.

He felt the urge to speak, to say something, get in contact with the man, but the gag hindered him.

Three minutes later he heard voices.

Was it the villain with accomplice?

Moments later he recognised John's voice.

He needed to save John and Lestrade!

John would be caught in the blast!

Think!

Ruthlessly he started to move what he could, which was his bound hands.

It was quite an effort to bump then into the lid from the inside, the lid was further away than he had thought, but luckily the control over his body was return fast now.

When he heard that John had understood that someone was trapped inside, he went limp from relief for a moment, but then remembered that he was hurting the man under him and tried to move off Greg's torso and head.

He listened, the other man's breathing had become very shallow and he could smell both their sweat as well as the smell of blood.

No, not smelling that!

He knew if he let the smell enter his reality the panic would skyrocket.

Moments later someone opened the lid and he almost sobbed with relief, then opened his eyes and in the dim light stared up into John's face.

.

Of course what he reported to Sally, his brother and John was the abridged, played down version of the events, that totally lacked any information about how he felt.

The fact that he was able to report it this straight forward made him sigh in relief inwardly. So many memories nowadays where not easy to think back to. He was sure that he wouldn't be able to tell John about many things he had experienced during his hiatus in a way that totally lacked any information about his mental state, his distress.

Thirty minutes after Sally and Mycroft had arrived he finished his report with the information that John had freed them and that they had escaped the explosion with the hot wired car.

Mycroft was listening with his usual disinterested expression, but he gladly managed not to comment in a way that would have unnerved Sherlock. But there was something in his countenance that looked a bit suspicious at several points of his brother's account.

When Sally asked to see the Lestrade's doctor, Mycroft followed her out, giving John an asking glace that Sherlock didn't miss.

John stood up.

"Sherlock, can you look after Greg for a moment, I'd like to hear what the doctor has to say, too."

Sherlock wondered why they didn't do it in here, but assumed they didn't want to discuss it in front of a still partially paralysed Lestrade.

The DI had been questioned by Sally, too. He was now able to speak, although it was visibly difficult and his speech was slurred. She had asked him only if Sherlock's report was accurate, missing something or if he wanted to comment on it.

Lestrade had stated he'd write something about what happened when the man had knocked Sherlock out and bound him, but otherwise completely agreed with Sherlock.

Now Sherlock stood up, thinking briefly about following the others out to hear what the doctor had to say, when Greg's voice made him stop.

"Stay, please."

"You're fine."

Lestrade huffed, "Bu' I wan' company."

"I'm bad company, you should know that by now."

"Saved me. A'so I prefer you t' lot of o'her people. You know that."

"Are you getting sentimental? Is the drug affecting your emotional state?"

"No, bu' being this vulnerable an' almost being killed pro'ably is."

"Does that mean I have to undergo anther hug as soon as you are able to stand?"

"Proba'ly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "If you feel you must, I'll endure that."

Lestrade chuckled, but Sherlock saw the raw emotions in his eyes, not knowing what they were, but they were clearly present and as close to the surface as his own. He suddenly realised they were both fighting to keep it in check, whatever it was.

He gulped, Lestrade's expression was unsettling.

"Thanks," the DI croaked, his voice sounded choked.

Sherlock didn't know what to say, what to do.

Was he supposed to comfort him?

Probably.

He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.

What would comfort himself right now? Couldn't be that far from what Lestrade needed.

Home, Fire, Violin.

"Come to Baker Street with us later," he suggested.

"I doubt they'll let me go anytime soon."

"Don't be ridiculous, in about two hours you'll be perfectly normal, even before that I will leave, you are free to come. I doubt John would let you go home alone and since you need a bit more monitoring, you can as well come with us."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at first, then gave him a weary smile.

"Okay. You have some beer?"

"No alcohol within the next twenty four hours, until the drug cocktail is completely out of your system."

"Shit. Since when do you…?"

"Since now."

"Right," Lestrade winced when he tried to shift a bit.

"I'm sorry. You'll… I mean… I presumably gave you several bruises… Are… are your ribs damaged?" Sherlock suddenly realised he was responsible for the pain the DI must be experiencing.

"I'm a bit sore, yeah, but I prefer you to _rumple_ me than anyone else," Greg tried to joke.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" Sherlock felt something unsettling rising.

It was his fault! He had injured the man. Why was this feeling so bad? He had injured other people before in order to save his life, or John's, or…

"Hey, it's okay. You're not responsible for this, the perpetrator is. I just had the bad luck to be on the bottom. Next time you're free to let me be on top."

Was he joking?

What was he supposed to respond to that?

He was a lousy friend, and he knew it… and had lousy bedside manners.

"You look like shit, mate, sit down," Lestrade started to turn onto his side with a grunt. "Well, it's great to be able to move again. Never thought this could feel so good."

He stopped halfway through the movement though, resting on his elbow, his face contorting in pain.

"This does _not_ actually look as if it feels good, quite the opposite. Ribs?" Sherlock asked and stepped closer.

Lestrade nodded, still tensed up and not moving.

Sherlock reached for the wires and made sure they wouldn't get in the way, then supported Lestrade by shoving his arm under his side and taking the weight. He helped him reposition on his side.

Their eyes met when Sherlock was about to let go slowly, and they just stared at each other for a long moment.

"Sorry, I should have asked permission," Sherlock hastily removed his arm.

"No, Sherlock it's okay. You're a friend, you are allowed to touch me… to help me. I'd tell you if I didn't want to be touched. Friends touch each other, that's normal. You were careful and tender, why is this a problem? I'm in need of help, I trust you."

"I…

"This hasn't been a problem before…"

"Touch was always a problem."

"I know, but something has changed," the DI explained, then suddenly he reached for Sherlock's forearm and gripped it.

The intense firm grip surprised Sherlock and he flinched.

"Sherlock, I trust you, and you need to trust us. You need help, too. Let us help, this is what friends do… Let us in… You need to share what's troubling you so we can protect you."

Sherlock frowned.

Had he just missed an entire conversation? When had they changed topic? Why was this suddenly about him?

"Look at me," Lestrade urged.

But he couldn't.

When an awkward silence settled into the room the DI held onto the other man.

"I'd like to come to Baker Street with you. I guess I need to have some company after this. Thanks for the offer."

Sherlock stared down at the hand that was wrapped around his forearm, the impulse to rip free was there, but also was the sense of being… encased.

Which was… feeling stable.

Lestrade let go and a moment later Sally's voice could be heard.

"Are you okay, there?" her heels clicked when entered and stepped nearer to the bed. "The sociopath getting on your nerves?"

"Christ, Donovan, I swear if you ever call him a sociopath again I'll reduce you in rank and send you to a week of psychology lectures about what a sociopath _really_ is like," the DI's hard tone surprised them all.

"Sorry, boss," he meekly said. "The doc said you can go home as soon as you're steady on your feet? Want me to bring you home?"

"No, thanks, go to the Yard, write a report... Dismissed," his tone was normal again now and Sally left immediately.

John passed by her when he stepped in.

"What just happened?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said. "Help me sit up, Sherlock."

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_I like Lestrade and I sometimes miss that there are so few good Sherlock-Lestrade-John-friendship interactions-, or H/C- scenes here. _

_So I decided this story needs some._

_I really hope Season 4 will show a bit more of Sherlock's relationship to Lestrade. _

_I loved how Lestrade reacted in 3x02 when Sherlock asked him for help for the speech, I mean it was awkward in a bad way, but the friendship and care it showed was hilarious. _

_I really liked Greg in Season 3, whenever he showed up it was great friendship-stuff. _

_Please review._


	34. Chapter 34

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_I have been working on this two-part story for one and a half years now, while writing it and the scenes around Sherlock's violin and his relationship to her, the topic 'music' resurfaced several times in my mind, I wrote them into the story at first, but later removed them again (before publishing of course) and put them in a whole new 'Lessons in Friendship'-story. So this is new story - as a draft - is also with me for quite some time. I had planned to start the new story as soon as 'Define vulnerability' was finished, but I need to write something last week, when I need a bit of a distraction. So there is a new story in my account, for everyone who is interested. It's my hypothesis how Sherlock might perceive and use music._

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 34**

**Saturday night **

Three hours later they were in the living room of 221b, Lestrade on the sofa, Sherlock in his armchair. John had not been too happy about the fact that they had been released this soon on one hand, but on the other he was sure this was better for Sherlock, who had started mentally running up the walls.

Dr Gonzales had begun asking the wrong kind of questions about his behaviour and tenseness and why he was carrying self-made drugs around at some point, therefore.

Now John was keeping a close eye on his former flatmate and the DI, currently providing tea, blankets and whatever was needed as a cover for monitoring them properly, Sherlock to be precise. The DI was happy to answer questions and now and then report how he was doing. The doctor had tried to make Sherlock lay down, too, but the other man refused vehemently. Now they were all just trying to settled down and find something to do to get through the night.

Greg cursed when they finished a quick meal.

"I need to write down what happened when Sherlock was knocked out, now. Before I forget the details. Can I borrow a laptop?" Lestrade asked Sherlock who was sorting through the first pictures that were taken after the store unit explosion, Mycroft had provided them.

Sherlock copied the pictures and removed a flash drive from the running computer, unplugged it and handed the obviously quite new device over to Lestrade, then he hogged John's laptop.

.

"Okay, hands up!" Lestrade yelled, Sherlock was down - probably unconscious - on the ground, and the man that had jumped him from the dark behind them was just straightening up again.

Where were the other teams?

He reached for his radio, pressing the button in the official SOS pattern, hoping it would get out.

Before he could do anything the villain had stepped closer to Sherlock and pressed a gun against his temple, it was equipped with a bulky silencer that was probably home made.

"You better stop right were you are mister, or I'll blow this one's brain out," the man spoke, steel in his voice.

Lestrade stopped, grasping the situation within a second, he listened for backup and another three seconds later lifted his hands into the air.

"Okay, don't shoot him, please," Lestrade begged in a deliberately insecure sounding voice.

"Throw away the weapon."

Greg was holding it up high in the air. When he didn't react immediately the man yelled.

"Throw away the weapon, now!"

Lestrade tried to look shaken, put the safety catch back into place and let go of the gun, it clattered to the ground.

"Who are you?"

When Lestrade didn't answer he yelled, "Come into the light."

Lestrade stepped slowly closer, hoping to give the others more time to find them and cosy the assailant along.

"Who are you?" the man asked again "Answer me or I _will_ shoot him!"

To prove he was not joking he pointed the gun towards the area between Sherlock's feet and pressed the trigger.

Greg flinched when the suppressed shot went into the concrete floor only twenty centimetres away from the unconscious man's feet, sending sharp flakes of stone flying.

"Is that one of your amateur detective friends?" the man asked the unresponsive Sherlock as if he was a reliable source.

Lestrade had thought that their perpetrator must be quite clever doing all that stuff and staging all the scenes, maybe he was, but his language made him appear kind of dull. Probably that was what made his victims think he was harmless, he made them feel superior and used it to his advantage.

Greg reminded himself to not be lulled into a false sense of security. Anyway, if the man underestimated him it would be of advantage, the guy seemed a bit crazy and unpredictable. He was dressed as if he was going out, dress suit and all. It was a bit ridiculous and definitely not appropriate clothing for the weather, without a coat at least.

"Don't pretend to be out!" the man kicked Sherlock's behind but there was no response.

"Have you alarmed the police?" the man's tone was now suddenly calm, cold and calculating.

"Yes," Lestrade stated.

"I don't believe you! You're just trying to make me panic and do something stupid," the man nodded towards Lestrade and stepped back, "I'll let you both live if you take my _medicine_."

"What for?"

"I'll get away and you'll have a _lovely_ time," the man stepped back further and gestured Lestrade to follow him, "Come 'ere."

"Why should I believe you?"

When Greg passed the figure on the ground he saw well hidden movements, Sherlock was on his side, with his back to the perpetrator and fumbling with something with his free hand.

"I can blow your brains out immediately if you'd prefer that," the man offered, his voice totally in control and not a hint of nervousness in it. Lestrade got more and more the impression he was an excellent actor, and able to display perfectly what he thought would serve his purpose.

Lestrade understood and the man held out some fabric, "Cuff him."

Greg did, though he tried to make the knot look tight when it was in fact not.

"Sit on the chair," the villain ordered, pointing towards a moth eaten office chair a few metres away.

.

Sherlock had prepared the fireplace and started a fire while the DI was typing, and Greg felt it warmed not only his body. Since they were all wound up and not ready to think of sleeping they watched the news, drank tea, and had nonsense dialogues about commercials.

When Sherlock later unpacked his violin, Lestrade didn't even care what was happening around him as long as it wasn't emptiness or silence. He was tired and exhausted, but still not ready to try to sleep, the memory of not being able to move was still lingering in his consciousness and he was not at all eager to sleep, fearing it would haunt him in the form of intense nightmares.

.

John called Mary and after they had talked for almost half an hours Sherlock felt the need to play his violin. It was the middle of the night, but he didn't care. He installed the mute and played things that he knew would calm his thoughts.

Although his fingers were still unfit, his playing was getting better. He needed more practise and this was the first time he felt he wanted to play and needed the sensation of the fragile instrument vibrating under the strokes of the bow.

.

When Lestrade later decided he needed to lie down Sherlock offered his bed, stating he'd not sleep anyway, what he didn't say was that he was way to irritated about the day to even think of sleep.

Greg refused although Sherlock could see clearly that he felt like lead and wanted nothing more than sleep. Sherlock himself felt tired to the bone but the DI couldn't even focus on the TV. Some time later his eyes just closed and he drifted off. Sherlock decided him playing had worked as intended and that it was now the time to take another look at the evidence.

.

Half an hour later John stepped closer to the sofa and tipped the DI's shoulder.

"Come on, you should take his offer and use his bed. He won't sleep so you can as well get comfortable there."

"Hm, hijacking his bed then. Never thought I'd actually do it."

John laughed and it sounded genuine, "Me neither."

Greg was still a bit uncoordinated and grateful for John's help.

They shuffled into Sherlock's bedroom, who completely ignored them, staring at evidence pictures.

Slowly, Greg worked his shoes off and while watching him the doctor felt the need to know how Sherlock had behaved earlier.

"He was really distressed before, you know," Greg answered, "I mean I was, too, but I have never seen him zone out like this before. It was unsettling to see him so shaken."

"What do you think caused it?" John softly asked while he felt once more for the DI's pulse.

"He seemed to be freaking out already when he regained consciousness. I had a hard time fighting my own panic in the boot, but he regained control over his body very fast and was kind of standing beside himself, not his usual calm and unfazed-no-matter-what self."

"Do you know what might have caused it?"

"No, but…"

"Yeah? Could it be because of the blood?"

"Oh god, maybe… you could be right."

"Before, at the hospital, with the victim, I mean when he freaked out then: the smell of blood was intense in there, too, wasn't it?" John wanted confirmation of what he feared was causing all this.  
"What are you saying exactly? That he's freaking out when he smells blood?" the DI whispered, starting to understand.

"Er… Kind of, only a hypothesis right now."

"Shit, I… now that I think about it… Definitely more than a hypothesis."

"Yeah, if this is what I think it is, it might be a real problem."

"He's not talking about it, isn't he?" Greg asked.

"Sherlock needs to do things in his own pace, which is either faster than anyone understands or slower than what we expect because he needs more background knowledge and more explanations. He has started to talk and I am quite grateful for that. Night," John sighed.

"Good night, then."

.

Later Greg woke and it took him several moments to remember where he was.

A minute went by until he found out what had woken him, he heard movement, he assumed at first that it was probably John, checking on him before heading to bed himself, but then a muffled sound could be heard nearby and he sat up in the bed.

The light in the kitchen was still on and illuminated the room just enough to make him see that Sherlock was curled into a ball on top of what looked like a large heap of blankets and throw pillows and at least three different kinds of bolsters. He seemed to be sound asleep.

He suddenly felt very bad for taking the offer of using Sherlock's bed.

The bedside clock said 7.59.

Shit, morning already, he wanted to at least sleep another three hours! He still felt exhausted.

Then another sound made him look around.

John entered the room and smiled at him.

"How are you doing?" he whispered.

"Christ, I shouldn't have taken Sherlock's bed."

"Don't worry, he has slept more times in that self-made nest than in his bed in the past weeks," John spoke in a low voice, "I've not figured out why, yet. But I fear I might be to blame about that. I'm glad he sleeps at all, though most of the time it's quite restless. Don't worry, he wouldn't have used the bed. If he hadn't wanted your company in here he'd be on the couch right now. Go back to sleep, it's early," the doctor briefly watched Sherlock's breathing and then left again.

Moments later the light in the kitchen was switched off.

Greg watched Sherlock's dim outline in the now blue light of early dawn. It seemed to be quite a proof of trust that Sherlock had come in here to lay down, or was he just oblivious that Greg was here? Well, he liked the idea that Sherlock trusted him and slept in here therefore.

While drifting back to sleep he heard Sherlock's shift restlessly several times.

It was around noon when Greg woke up again.

Sherlock was gone and the bedroom door was closed, but there were voices in the kitchen.

.

**Sunday noon**

"Give it to me, Mycroft."

"I want you to promise me that you will think about getting professional help with your 'problem' Sherlock."

"You're trying to use blackmail as a proof of brotherly affection again? Didn't work in the past, won't work now. I'll only get more and more pissed about you. Give it to me!"

Greg had just entered the kitchen, which was already full of people, John sitting at the breakfast table and Mary preparing toast. Mycroft was standing behind Sherlock who did his best to ignore him, he just held out his hand.

"Then at least promise me to _not_ damage the investigation by running off on your own," Mycroft's voice was sharp.

"Fine," Sherlock hissed between closed teeth.

Mycroft sighed demonstratively and put a large envelope into his brother's waiting hand.

"Hi Greg," Mary greeted.

"Hey there, guys."

"Good morning inspector, I trust you have recovered from yesterday's ordeal?"

"Yeah, thanks. News?" Greg asked.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, obviously enthralled about the content of an unpacked manila folder, "Yes!"

"What is it?" John wanted to know.

"After I read Lestrade's report last night I convinced Mycroft to sent people over to the storage area and search for the bullet. Forensics are still searching through the rubble, too. They found both, the bullet and a weapon."

Sherlock held out a picture of a burned small calibre gun.

"That's not the one he used to fire at the ground," Lestrade remarked.

"We know, but this one could be traced back to a man living only about a kilometre away from the explosion."

"We need to visit him."

"We will. In the early evening, when I have a search warrant, a strategy and the whole area secured. My agents are helping Lestrade's team and we need some time to coordinate and prepare. Other teams are already in place surveilling the area."

"Your exertion of influence is getting way too much with this investigation," Sherlock stood up and shoved his chair back towards under the table with too much force. The tableware clattered and John reached for the container of milk that toppled over, luckily it was closed tight. The doctor hissed in disapproval while Sherlock stormed off into the living room.

The older Holmes puckered his lips, also in disapproval, when he drew breath to criticise his brother, John lifted his hand.

"Don't. Thank you for bringing the new evidence. He's quite stressed, don't make it worse. I'll handle it," John offered.

"John, as a doctor, you should be aware he's not getting any better."

"He is, I'm aware it's slow, yes, but he's taking meds now, we're doing this at _his_ speed. Do not interfere and destroy what I have reached. This would do no one any good."

Mycroft looked as if he disagreed but demonstratively held it back, his disapproval though was written all over his face.

"Very well, then. There's also a copy of the toxicology reports, everything fine as it seems. I'll see you all later," he picked up his umbrella from the next to the counter and left.

The kitchen was bathed in silence for almost a minute even after the front door had shut downstairs.

They ate breakfast without Sherlock.

.

The atmosphere in the flat remained tense and Sherlock only gave brief and unfriendly answers when somebody tried to talk to him. He was understandably sulky about being left out of the planning but not eager to see Donovan again this soon. John convinced him to stay home until they meet with the other two teams of investigators later for interviewing the weapon owner.

Some time later Greg decided to go home, get fresh clothes and have a shower before heading over to Scotland Yard and join the team's preparations.

In the early afternoon Sherlock was driving everybody nuts, with loudly walking up and down the living room, including Mrs Hudson who had come up. She stated that downstairs his steps were even more unbearable. The detective was now fully dressed in his suit and dressing shoes while he was 'thinking'.

After half an hour Mary decided this needed to stop.

.

Sherlock turned around once more in front of the fire place and stirred back into the direction of the sofa, and stopped dead in his tracks when Mary blocked his way with a large mug in her hands.

The sudden silence and change of mood made everyone look at them.

Mary stood there, holding the cup close to her chest with both hands and calmly looking up at the agitated man.

Sherlock - only a few decimetres away and frowning down at her - clearly irritated about the interruption, just stood there, too.

Then his gaze went down to the mug, then up again meeting her eyes, understanding dawning. The smell the cup was radiating was quite intense.

It was like a whole conversation was happening without words and everybody waited what would happen.

Mary held out the mug a moment later and Sherlock took it, carefully inhaling it's scent as invisible as possible.

Mary acted as if nothing had happened and pulled another chair over to the coffee table and sat down with the others again, continuing to text on her phone as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock then sat down in his leather chair, a bit hunched over the cup and staring down at it, totally oblivious to everybody watching. He hesitated for about a minute before carefully sipping the steaming liquid.

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing. When the smell of fresh ginger reached his nostrils he looked over at his future wife and saw her whimsically look down on her display while she continued to text.

.

An hour later Sherlock had explained the new evidence and how he had the idea to search for the bullet, more weapons, and the injectors, which must also have serial numbers that might be traced. Mrs Hudson had returned to her flat when he started to talk about the case.

The three of them discussed it for quite some time until Mary suddenly changed topics.

"Sherlock, you're very good when it comes to coordinating and planning. Would you help us with the wedding? It's a puzzle of major proportions to plan such an event and we think you'd be a very good wedding planner."

Sherlock looked up.

"I'm not good when it comes to… social… things."

"Hang on, I'm not asking you to invite our guest personally, this is about coordinating stuff. You know, figuring out what caterer would fit best with the guests, choose a location, plan the 'course of events'. But that's all way in the future, for the beginning we need to start with other general things, like: finding the best suitable date and getting the formalities right. No social interaction necessary than with the two of us."

Sherlock's gaze went over to John and the confused look on his face was almost funny.

"You look as if you haven't expected that this might ever be a thing you'd do in your life?" Mary joked.

"Yes," Sherlock simply stated.

"Well, then that's a challenge, isn't it? Come on, say yes, it'll be fun."

"Fun?" Sherlock asked with suspicion, as if she had suggested something totally horrible and was not getting it.

"Yes, it will be."

"We'd like you to join us doing this," John said, smiling carefully.

Sherlock frowned.

"You'll do great. You don't have to answer this right away, just think about it," Mary encouraged him.

"Unknown grounds are always a challenge," Sherlock mumbled, not looking at them.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered immediately.

"Oh, great," she stood up and hugged him although he was sitting down.

Sherlock stiffened but accepted the touch, giving her a frowning smile.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. :)_

_Constructive criticism welcome._

_Please review._


	35. Chapter 35

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_._

_Special thanks to Ashblood and Belen09 for pointing out grammar mistakes in the last chapters. I'm very grateful for your hints and constructive criticism. _

_…_

* * *

_…_

**Chapter 35**

**Sunday evening**

In the early evening Lestrade picked them up and John was glad it was only the three of them in the car.

The DI explained that Donovan was already at the scene, as were Mycroft and his minions, about this fact Sherlock put his frustration intensely into words. Though the fact that Sherlock used the word _minions_ repeatedly, made John grin. As did the hoodie jumper Sherlock had chosen to wear, and his artificial dirty clothing to round out the disguise.

Though the consulting detective had taken his coat with him, he had expressed his desire to leave it in the car. Instead he was wearing an old kagoul and stated that he wanted to be able to move without being recognised at first sight.

John also assumed the bulky jacket was the perfect way to hide the gun Sherlock had brought and that was now producing a bulge in one of the large side pockets of the jacket. The former soldier had his own gun with him, too, but was a bit surprised about Sherlock's decision, the man usually did not carry.

When they reached the meeting point - five large black vans that were parked several blocks away from the target - loads of people where already there, trying to behave inconspicuous and stay in the cars as much as possible.

As soon as they had joined the police force and agents Sherlock was informed by his brother that this would go by the book and that Sherlock was expected to be a bystander, which lead to a flood of unfriendly words between the brothers.

When they went over the plan how to proceed, Sherlock decided he needed a smoke, John offered to join him but he was told to stay and memorise the strategy. The doctor cursed, he assumed Sherlock would go for a stroll, inspecting the area around the house. Mycroft would send them home if he found out, but as long as John stayed, his absence would not attract too much attention.

It started to drizzle and Sherlock was back, only ten minutes later, without anyone having commented on his absence. The old-fashioned woollen cap he was wearing had caught small silver droplets and the disguise made John grin once more, this time Sherlock grinned back, probably fully aware how ridiculous it looked. He removed the hat immediately. They were back to grinning at crime scenes and John had to admit he was really glad about it.

Sherlock's costume was not bad, but the darkness and the weather probably helped a lot to hide their actions. Next time John would come prepared, too. He had just accepted they would wait in the background somehow, not expecting to get into the action. Or maybe he had wished that Sherlock would stay with him if he did and be save. He flinched mentally when he realised that meant he subconsciously might have doubts that Sherlock was well enough to act properly, or to handle any situation that might occur, or was he just trying to keep him safe, now that he had him back? Kind of overprotective?

Was Mycroft right and Sherlock was a danger to himself and others?

He huffed in annoyance about his brief scepsis, Sherlock with flashbacks and triggers acted still a lot better and reliable than most people at the high or their abilities. He'd trust Sherlock more than anybody else, even with the recent problems.

He had been there himself some years ago, and Sherlock had trusted him when he was ridden by the symptoms of PTSD. It _had_ made him jumpier, for sure, prone to be triggered, but Sherlock had trusted him to be able to handle it. He had been, most of the time. If anyone could handle this, it was Sherlock.

John knew why he was vehemently fighting Mycroft about this. Sherlock needed this, although he also needed to learn about his problems, he needed to continue to work, as had John.

Well, maybe he himself was getting settled too much currently, considering a marriage, living with his wife, thinking about children.

Would that really be a life he could adjust to? A few months ago he had been so sure of it.

Had he given up craving for action? No, he had just been too tired and too exhausted and down after Sherlock's death to muster the energy to go after it. Half a year ago it had finally started to come back - that he wished for more action in his life - again.

Now that Sherlock was back, he felt he wanted to have his share again, as long as it wasn't affecting his relationship to Mary in a bad way, at least.

Meanwhile Sherlock pretended to listen to the briefing, as if he had been there all the time, in the background.

When his friend suddenly asked things he couldn't even know to ask about without having being there the whole time, John once more wondered how he did it. He was probably just still good with remembering procedures, so that he could just foresee what they planned, or had he nicked someone's notes?

After what felt like ages the teams assembled and started to get into position, one by one.

Sherlock followed Lestrade's team and John followed Sherlock, trying to convince him to stay back, but the consulting detective ignored him.

When the signal came to storm the house, though, they did stay back, John's grip on Sherlock's arm clearly signalling him he wouldn't allow his friend to just ran in there without protective gear.

Sherlock didn't fight him, but when a few minutes later Lestrade's "All clear, you can come in, Sherlock," came over the radio, he hurried inside, at least Lestrade was thinking of Sherlock's need to take part when Mycroft obviously wasn't.

John's hope sank, it had been over way to fast and so quietly it was likely that the house was empty.

The moment they entered, the stench hit them like a wall. They passed some police men who looked green and nauseous, the air inside was dry and warm.

"Who's dead?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

"We don't know yet," Greg had a hand over his mouth, while he holstered his weapon, "Dead man in the living room. Dead for some time, now. The weather is cold, windows are closed, slowed down the process."

Sherlock headed into the living room without hesitation.

The dead man had started not only decomposing, but also to mummify partially and the stench was horrible.

John followed his former flatmate.

"It's the man we are here for, the owner of the gun, probably dead for…" Sherlock fetched his phone out of his bum bag and studied something.

"Temperature constantly around 11° outside, 23 inside… that means… about two or three months."

"Months? What?" Lestrade asked, "That long? He looks like…"

"Rough guess, plus or minus three weeks. Sorry, the weather was better before, wasn't it? I didn't put that in the equation, wasn't here."

Greg shook his head in disbelieve, "No one should be able to calculate that this fast, you know."

"You want me to pretend I need longer next time to humour you?"

"Yes, please," Lestrade said dryly.

John stepped closer, too. Looking at the body only at first, until a hand that held another fresh vinyl glove appeared in front of his face, a bit too near. It was of course Sherlock's hand.

The doctor took it and slipped his hand in, then peeled back the woollen blanket the figure was half covered with. Under it, the body looked worse, but only because moisture had not been able to evaporate from under the synthetic fabric.

"How had nobody smelled this?"

"Probably the heating was used on a high setting and…" Sherlock gestured towards two large units in the room "…dehumidifiers were used."

"What for?" Donovan had also stepped closer, wearing a bullet proof vest.

"Obviously to lengthen the time until the body was discovered. How did this man earn his money?" Sherlock asked her.

"He was receiving an army pension," someone answered from the back.

"Maybe someone wanted the money to continue to come," Sherlock suggested.

"You mean…?" Sally started.

"…our perpetrator, maybe? But there are about another thirty-four other possible scenarios. I want to narrow it down, excuse me."

Sherlock started to wander through the house, followed slowly by John and Lestrade when he wasn't otherwise occupied.

.

Twenty minutes of inspecting the scene later Sherlock fetched a key from a wall mounted key box near the cellar door, a single key dangled from something that was labelled: _bunker_.

"Another key," Sherlock held it up. "What is it with this case and keys?"

"There are about twenty more in here, why _this_ one?"

"How many people you know who have a key to a shelter?"

"Might be a joke, something that is called 'bunker' for fun, you know, military bloke. Could be the cellar door key," John suggested.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then closed his eyes, holding the key in between his pressed together palms, that were still clad in his leather gloves.

"Sherlock?" John asked, a bit worried.

"Shut up, I need to think!"

John and Greg had barely exchanged hesitating looks when Sherlock hurried into the bathroom and closed the door.

John followed, not ready to leave Sherlock alone.

When he opened the bathroom door again, Sherlock had sat down on the edge of the toilet's closed lid, in one of his thinking positions, he looked the opposite of relaxed.

The room was meticulously clean and in order, as was the rest of the house. The good thing was that the smell in here was not as bad in here. The door must have been closed during the past weeks.

A moment later the door opened again and Greg followed them into the large room, too. Oddly enough it was bigger than the kitchen. Since it was a crime scene no one expected Sherlock to need privacy in there.

After three minutes of silence someone else poked his head in, but when he saw the two silently waiting for something in a restroom, the person vanished again without a word, must have been one of Mycroft's goons, according to his suit.

Only another two minutes later Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at them.

"There's an air raid shelter in between this property and the next, underground, just a small hut, might be visible from above ground, but it's not small underground. The hut contains a stairwell that leads downwards, it's surrounded by a fence, maybe grown over."

"How do you know?" Lestrade had opened the door wide and some people were standing outside, eager to know what was going on.

"A few weeks ago we had a case with a young woman, who died during some WW2 re-enactment," Sherlock explained. "Remember?"*

Greg nodded.

"'Course," John muttered.

"During my investigations I looked up every site on the internet that was about WW2 re-enacting in the London area. On one I found a link to a site that was very interesting seen from a historical perspective. There were historical maps - interactive ones - where people could mark spots where old WW2 bunkers, air raid shelters and similar things were - or still are - located, including descriptions of the state of the object and accessibility. Some kind of bunker wiki, for lack of a better word."

"Well, that's…," Lestrade started.

"…quite interesting, yes," Sherlock didn't let him finish. " To be honest I found it _really_ entertaining, read them all. There are many such locations, often hidden in plain sight, but only a handful of people know what it is they see in between a parking space and a supermarket: the old entrance to a bunker. Some of those old shelters can't be entered or are unsafe, but these people seek for adventure, sometimes therefore for objects that are broken into already or easy to trespass. Some are on private ground or far away from houses so breaking in wouldn't be discovered. Really interesting."

"You mean this key actually opens an old WW2 bunker in the backyard?"

"Yes, that's what I just said, didn't I?" Sherlock left the bathroom without haste but then suddenly hurried past the people standing around and headed towards the back door, "That is if I memorized the map correctly."

"Wait, what if he's down there?"

"We'll know soon. We have to hurry, he might be already alerted to our presence."

"What? How?"

But Sherlock started to run through the back door.

John followed and saw his friend fumble for the torch in his jacket, something must have alarmed Sherlock.

Lestrade followed, too of course, yelling orders to his people.

It was once more raining and almost pitch dark, only the lights from the house and distant street lights provided some illumination, but with every metre they ran it became darker. The torches were not much help while running.

The property was larger than John had expected and Lestrade was slowed down because he tried to speak into his radio to inform others to follow while he ran.

"Sherlock, could you slow down?" John had problems this time keeping up with Sherlock.

"Nope," Sherlock then also took out his gun, while John was still busy switching on his own battery torch while moving.

The distance between them was growing now and John wondered if Sherlock's toes would suffer serious damage. The consulting detective was running like hell, some adrenaline must have kicked in, because the little Sherlock had eaten in the past days was surely not giving him much to burn.

When Sherlock rounded what looked like a hedge in the distance, he was suddenly completely out of John's sight. By that the light from the house was no use at all and running with the torch as the only source of light became had become a lot trickier.

The doctor cursed about being left behind.

While he was running he had seen how Sherlock handled and held the weapon, it was different from before, with more ease, more used to handling it. Sherlock had obviously become a lot more familiar with weapons during his time away, and he had also become quite fit, even if it was impaired by a loss of weight, the torture and his mental state, which had made him neglect his body's needs and therefore weakened him.

When he suddenly heard Sherlock yell he sped up, that couldn't be good.

He came around the wild growth and saw two man fighting hand to hand in the dark. He lifted his torch with one hand, this gun drawn in his other hand, steadying his aim.

"Freeze!"

They didn't. Which made it impossible for John to get a clear shot, not even at the man's feet.

"Stop it, right there!" he used his commando voice, but they continued to throw punches at each other, were a wild tangle of moving limbs.

At least John was fairly certain no one of them had currently a gun in their hands.

"Watch the door!" Sherlock could be heard yelling, but John saw no door.

The perpetrator used that moment to ram his shoulder into Sherlock's stomach and the detective grunted. His hand to hand combat technique had obviously also improved, though the villain seemed to be trained quite well and rather strong for his hight, too. John wondered briefly if it was a good idea to let Sherlock do it like this, but he had not really a choice, it was just too dark and risky. He tried to step in twice but it didn't work at all.

Lestrade arrived only five seconds later, but before he had drawn breath to yell another 'Freeze', Sherlock finally managed to punch the surprised man directly in the face who was just about to try to start another attack.

John was sure he'd go down but instead he kicked Sherlock's thigh hard, missing his groin for which he had clearly aimed.

Sherlock flinched, but only slightly, and then got his chance and knocked the man out with his elbow, right into the face.

The aggressor dropped like a stone, the force Sherlock had put behind the movement had been quite strong.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" Lestrade was angry.

"What?" Sherlock panted, his tone rather unnerved, "I caught him!"

Sherlock leaned down, rested his hands on his knees and continued to pant, the short but intense fight _had_ affected him.

"You're sure it's him?" John asked, now next to Sherlock, shining his light into the unconscious man's face.

"I wouldn't have attacked him if it wasn't the right man!"

"Yes, I'm sure, too. This is the man who attacked us at the warehouse, definitely," Greg explained, "This was the opposite of what we had agreed about. Where's your weapon, Sherlock?"

Lestrade rolled the stunned man onto his side, not too gently, and cuffed him.

It was clearly their perpetrator, though disguised, kind of. He looked different than before, more mature, as well in clothing as in his hairstyle, he had changed his outer appearance with great skill.

John searched the grass, he was sure Sherlock shouldn't be caught having a gun.

"When did you learn this?" Lestrade asked.

"You're insulting me, right?… She's probably down there. Search him for more keys and… stuff."

The man in the grass didn't move, Sherlock must have hit him quite hard, which made John feel for his pulse and check his pupils, just to make sure he was alive.

"How did you know he was here?" John asked, then.

"I didn't, but there was a web cam in the house, made it a likely assumption. It was hidden above the hallway door, in a storage compartment hanging there, whoever was watching had a clear sight of the hallway. I started to run when I spotted it had been switched on - red LED suddenly on - because I realised he'd sooner or later see us and escape. I was right, he had just locked the door when I arrived here and surprised him."

"Which door?"

Sherlock straightened and shoved away a veil of hanging branches and ivy.

A large metal door was revealed and he produced the key from before and shoved it into the keyhole, though he didn't turn it.

Without a light he headed back to a place several steps away and picked up his weapon.

"Shit, you know where it was? Did you drop it on purpose?" John asked, a bit shocked.

Sherlock ignored him and returned to the door.

"What kind of stunt was that?" Lestrade asked, obviously also a bit desolate.

They were all very glad to have caught him, but the tension was rising nevertheless, and John was not looking forward how much trouble Sherlock would be in as soon as Mycroft found out.

But the girl was still missing and the chance that there were accomplices was still present, of which Greg and John were very aware, so anger and discussion would have to wait.

….

* * *

….

_A/N:_

_* This case is described / takes place in the first part of this story: Lessons in Friendship 8._

_._

_I'd be very happy about some feedback._


	36. Chapter 36

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

_..._

* * *

_..._

**Chapter 36**

Sherlock reached for the bunker key again, that was still ready in the keyhole, but Lestrade's hand stopped him.

"Don't. You don't know what's down there, he might as well has booby trapped this. We better wait for the team to do this by the book. As your brother pointed out, this needs to be done correctly, we can't afford that he gets away because of formalities. You caught him, you did great, but let us do _this_."

Sherlock hissed angrily but stepped back.

The arrival of agents and police staff accompanied by medics and bright lights could be heard a few moments later.

They made sure it was safe to open the door, which seemed to take ages, Sherlock had time to smoke three cigarettes in row, Lestrade joined and smokes on of his own. When they had finally secured the door and it was ready to be opened the troops stormed the bunker, Lestrade on their heels.

A short time later Lestrade told them the "All clear," over the radio, John and Sherlock headed down the concrete spiral staircase.

The hallway was neither dark nor looked bedraggled. It was brightly lit and wider than John had expected, for two people could pass each other easily and Sherlock didn't need to duck to go down the stairs. This didn't look at all like a small bunker and it looked well kept and maintained.

Sherlock was hurrying down but after a what seemed to be two or three circles he slowed down. John, who was walking behind him and watched his steps almost ran into him.

"What is it?"

Sherlock stopped, but neither turned nor spoke.

"Sherlock?"

When again no reply came John gently put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and stepped down three steps to look at his face.

Sherlock turned away to face the concave wall the moment he felt John pass him.

"Can you hear me? What is it?" John repeated and shifted his hand a bit more towards Sherlock's neck. When no reaction came he tightened his grip, which finally made the other man turn around, but he didn't look up.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

The detective said nothing and John gently squeezed his trapezius muscle to get his attention.

Sherlock just pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, it wasn't an answer but at least it was a sign he was with the doctor and listening to him.

"Is it the stairwell?"

Sherlock shook his head, his jaw was clenched.

"The light? What?"

Sherlock shook his head once more but didn't move away from the touch.

"Come on, tell me. What the hell is happening?" the doctor urged gently.

"Smell," his friend said hoarsely with a grimace of disgust.

John slowly let go of his friend and tried to concentrate. There was a light musty smell in the air, but not really bad, just like in the cellar of an old house.

"Smell is intense… bringing memories back."

"Okay, I don't want to trigger something, but can you very briefly tell me what it reminds you of?"

"Torture. Dungeon," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

John sucked in air slowly, "Since you stopped I assume it's bad?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said with suppressed impatience.

"Does it help when I talk?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again and now looked at John, who expected a nasty remark.

But after the detective had stared at him intensely with narrowed eyes for several moments he just nodded.

"All right. On a scale from one to ten, when ten is 'panic-attack of major proportions ' and one is you feel uneasy. Where is this?"

"Four or five."

"Alright. Do you want to go down there?"

Sherlock's gaze clearly showed he thought the idea not to continue was absolutely disgusting and ridiculous.

"I guess that's a 'yes'. Fine. Firstly: I know how this feels. This sucks. Secondly: Thank you for being honest with me. Thirdly: I'll try to keep you grounded, concentrate on my voice. Fourthly: … here."

John held out his hand, it contained a small silvery box, which the detective immediately recognised as a brand of extra strong mints. He looked up at John, and there was something surprised in his eyes that had nothing to do with the smell.

"Thanks," Sherlock sounded more touched than expected. He put three of the pastilles in his mouth and concentrated on breathing.

"Can you promise me to tell me if this gets too much?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"We need a private signal for this kind of stuff," the doctor suggested.

"What for?"

"I don't want you to suffer through having a flashback with an audience. I remember I once had an anxiety attack on the streets and believe me it was… bad. People staring at you in this kind of situation is a lousy experience. And I guess you will like it even less than I did. Let's take precautions. How about you hand over that box back to me as a secret signal if you need to get out."

Sherlock nodded and turned away, then continued down the stairs, a lot slower than before, though.

The doctor relaxed a bit, Sherlock was unnerved but had not told him to piss off, had excepted help, told him what was going on. Which was good, although the fact that Sherlock even admitted it was getting worse was a bad sign and looming over the proof of trust.

When they reached the bottom Sherlock's clenched jaw muscles were the only sign left of his distress, only recognisable for someone who knew him.

They were surprised to find the entrance to a fully equipped living area, basic, but with everything needed for daily life. The furniture and carpets seemed to be a bit outdated, but not shabby or moth-eaten.

There was also a small black and white monitor in the hallway that showed a live feed from the hallway of the house on the surface.

When they entered the 'living room' the missing girl was on the sofa, in front of a large plasma TV set, not moving, but obviously very agitated about the tumult and people running around with guns. She was very pale and breathing way too fast.

Donovan was already taking care of her, she was the only female in the team and tried to soothe her and explain to her what was happening. Sally was obviously quite alarmed by her state. After a brief look at Sherlock, with which John made sure his friend was doing fine now that the smell was gone, he hurried over to the paralysed woman. Although he knew what the drug did, he made Sally radio the medics again to urge them to come down as soon as possible.

"She can have some of the antidote," Sherlock offered, stepping closer to John, who was kneeling in front of the young woman, "I have another vial in my pocket."

"Er, I think she just needs some medical attention and come off of it on her own. The safe way, you know," John explained, "How much of the stuff did you make?"

"Well, not taking it would safe her stomach cramps, so you're probably right," Sherlock agreed, but with a sarcastic undertone, looking overall quite uninterested in her and her state.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John stood up and turned towards him.

"What for? Would you have blown on it and made it better that way?" Sherlock tantalised.

"Not good, Sherlock," John mumbled, just loud enough to make sure his former flatmate heard him. He was aware Sherlock's stress was manifesting here, the consulting detective was not really intentionally rude. He had seen this behaviour in various manifestations during his time in rehab with other PTSD patients.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, tone still agitated, and turned away. Then he started to inspect the bunker and ignored everybody else thoroughly for the next two hours.

John left him alone but kept an eye on him, his sudden bad mood was a clear sign to let him be for a bit, so he just observed. Also, the doctor was still a bit angry about him running off alone before.

Sherlock bagged evidence and wrote notes until Mycroft entered the underground living space, carrying his umbrella, a frown on his face. The woman had been carried away by paramedics a long time ago, and now it was just police and forensics.

"I am not happy about this, brother dear."

"Never expected you to be, Mycroft," Sherlock spit back. "You have never before shown any sign of gratitude, no matter what I accomplished. I don't expect it, so why are we talking about this? I could have saved the world and you wouldn't have been pleased. I probably did save the world last…"

"Don't be so over-dramatic," Mycroft interrupted and sounded quite angry. "I told you not to run off on your own, Sherlock!"

"John was there the whole time, he perfectly had my back."

Deciding it would be better to say nothing, John remained silent, he'd address this later when they had privacy.

"Guys, guys. I know this was bad, but can we just not make a scene right here and pretend we are happy for the moment?" Lestrade interrupted and stepped closer, "We saved the girl, we caught a serial killer. We did a great job, so let's just be proud of ourselves for a bit and celebrate. This was big and everyone did good!"

John was grateful for these words and realised immediately this was Greg being a bit protective about Sherlock. But obviously he had said the wrong thing because the next moment Sherlock had turned his back and was on the stairs.

"Shit," Lestrade cursed, "What did I do?" he addressed John.

"I don't know, mate." John sighed, "He's dissatisfied with his performance in this case and maybe also in general, and I assume he feels you just praised him out off pity or maybe he feels pathetic being commended for bad work. I suppose I better go after him, ," John turned towards the exit, too.

"Oh," Lestrade just made and nodded.

"Besides, this was probably a bit too anticlimactic for his taste. After the work he did in the past two years this must seem boring," Mycroft added.

"What are you trying to say?" John stopped briefly on his way out.

"Nothing, doctor, please make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, would you?" Mycroft grinned and John wasn't sure if it was meant normal or with ulterior motives.

No one disagreed and he hurried after the consulting detective.

**.**

When John reached the surface again, he was glad that he could see Sherlock in the distance, walking towards the house against a halo of bright lights. The police had installed what seemed to be suited to illuminate a small stadium in the large garden.

Sherlock's form was a bit odd, the coat was missing and he was hunching over because of the rain that had started anew. His hands were buried deep in the rain jacket.

It was an oddly lonesome scene and Sherlock's posture screamed 'frustration' and after some long moments the doctor realised Sherlock was favouring the foot with his good toes.

Shit, he had probably damaged the healing ones again, and had received a few punches.

John hurried to catch up with him while he pulled out a phone to call a cab.

Shortly before they reached the house they were walking side by side.

John didn't speak, just joined him.

They went around the house, not bothering to go into it again, and Sherlock stopped at the sidewalk.

"Chinese?" John asked, a bit sentimental, maybe, but he was hungry.

"Yes," Sherlock simply said and fetched his coat.

.

**Sunday night**

They had just entered the Chinese restaurant to order take away when Sherlock's mobile rang.

He answered and listened.

"Alright, pick us up," he finally said and hung up.

"What is it?"

"There are complications with the girl, she is in a bad state and it seems our perpetrator is conscious again, but refusing to talk. Since I spend days analysing that drug, I'm probably the most competent person you can get right after the killer, so they're calling us in. Told me to bring my research as well. We'll pick up my notes at Baker Street and then go to the hospital," Sherlock explained heading out of the restaurant just as the waiter was ready to take their order.

"Bloody hell, she has a name, besides 'girl'… she's actually a grown woman, could you do the effort to remember it for the upcoming interaction, please?"

"Right, what was it again?"

.

Four hours later they still hadn't eaten.

The young victim was indeed in a bad state, drifting in and out of consciousness, her vitals messed up and panicky whenever she resurfaced enough to think three straight thoughts in a row. She was not able to move yet, incarcerated in her own body and caught in her horrible memories.

When they arrived in A&amp;E, Lestrade was trying the same thing Sherlock had done for him, he talked to her, explained what was happening. He told her that he had been drugged with the same stuff the day before, so she wouldn't feel so alone, but it was no use since she was out of her mind with fear, no one could reach her.

Sherlock and John were picked up by a nurse and brought to a conference room where some lab technicians, a drug specialist, an anaesthetist and several other specialists were already waiting.

Together they went through every tiny bit of information Sherlock had learned about the drug, it's components, possible side effects, cross reactions and so on.

They even took more of Sherlock's and Lestrade's blood to gather more information.

Finally they had worked out a plan for her treatment and decided to give her a diluted version of Sherlock's antidote, which they insisted to reproduce themselves to leave out some of the stuff they didn't deem save. Therefore they asked Sherlock to explain his receipt in detail again and started to discuss possible changes.

John was once more impressed by Sherlock's knowledge, but the man was a graduate chemist after all, and it was showing, in a good way.

Now John understood another thing. Sherlock had spend the nights experimenting, a thing he was perfectly able to do, felt safe to do, could relax into the activity because it was familiar and science and followed rules, safe, honest, cause-and-effect rules. Familiar in a situation where everything was bad, new, and different and everything well-known was good and a safe haven.

When he had returned to London, he himself had missed to be able retreat into those things, had spend much time recreating them with Ella, because he had nothing left in England when he came back. No home, no retreat, no family, no medicine, no army, nothing he valued, nothing he felt safe with, there was just no place he had left he could return to.

It was odd, now that he saw Sherlock go through those things he understood his own issues suddenly a bit better, which helped him understand Sherlock better. His friend was sometimes good in doing the right thing for his psyche without having a clue about it, it just happened. He'd have denied it, but it worked. He did odd things one could only understand after knowing him for a long time.

John decided to ask Sherlock more about those things again. They had done this in the past. The doctor had asked why Sherlock did things the way he did, had listened. He needed to pay more attention to that once more, needed to remind himself to be open about Sherlock's queer ways once more, enjoy seeing them, as he had done in the past.

He had not been really good at that in the last weeks, hadn't he. He had tried, but was hesitant, maybe he feared Sherlock could leave again, but finally now he was quite sure Sherlock would do his best to stay.

Listening to Sherlock's scientific lectures and explanations felt so very good, safe and home for him, too. He bit his lip and frowned when his emotions were assaulting him in that stupid lab full of hospital personnel.

His friend must have seen it because he caught John's gaze and held it for what felt like a very long time. His mouth went on talking about a special procedure in the manufacturing process, but somehow something different was happening simultaneously silently between them. They had had a remarkably good non-verbal communication in the past, but it was somehow muted since Sherlock's return, only slowly returning.

At first Sherlock looked a bit distressed about the way John watched him, but it soon turned into something else, something more relaxed and then he shyly smiled, which obviously irritated several people in the group who promptly followed his gaze.

Sherlock skilfully pretended John had done something funny to cover the kind of mystical moment, and then switched off the light to make them turn their gazes away and towards the wall, that was now lit by an overhead projector.

Something had happened to Sherlock in these few moments, he didn't know what it was, but the man's gaze had held something… a spark of something, something positive.

John couldn't describe it, it just felt as if something had returned to Sherlock… or to them, and it made John bite his lip even harder because more emotions welled up.

Luckily by now Sherlock was drawing some complex formulas or atoms or whatever on the overhead projector and the focus of the group was completely on the large projected drawing on the wall. John leaned back against the wall and just savoured the moment.

.

After the meeting they returned to the young woman, who was now not only surrounded by medical staff, but also by Donovan and Lestrade.

"Hey, I just talked to Mycroft. He's into some background stuff about the bunker and the administration. He'll know more tomorrow."

"Anything from our villain?"

"No, he has been briefly - and heavily guarded - treated for a concussion, and is now incarcerated, therefore we can't interview him before tomorrow morning."

"I should have shot him in the foot," Sherlock added dryly.

"Well, not really. Then he'd be here in hospital, and quite frankly, I like him in prison," Lestrade explained, "Besides, I'm really glad you did not fire a single shot, that paperwork would have chained me to my desk for a week."

"Oh, I was of course holding back to make you happy," Sherlock added, now sounding a bit sarcastic, but a thin smile was on his face.

Greg smiled back and padded his shoulder.

"Can we go?" John asked. He needed something to eat and a kiss from Mary and some quiet time at Baker Street with Sherlock, in that order.

"I caught you when you were getting something to eat, right? Sorry, go and have dinner."

For the second time that day they headed for the Chinese restaurant.

.

Mary had already eaten when they came back home, but was eager to hear about the events of the day: the arrest of a serial killer.

In the middle of John's recount, after finishing his meal and taking his meds, Sherlock retreated into his room, leaving the door open. At first John thought he just went to plug in his phone or get something, but he didn't come back and when John checked on him a bit later he was sleeping in his dressing gown, but under the covers of his bed, again.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_I have absolutely no idea if is possible to make an antidote to my fictional drug, I also have no medical knowledge at all and also no knowledge about NHS procedures. Everything about this drug and procedures is purely fictional._

_As is the bunker location homepage, the administration and maintenance of the old buildings, I made the facts up to fit my needs. If someone has knowledge I would of course be pleased to change things to come closer to reality._

_I was inspired after I saw the documentaries 'Churchill's Secret Bunkers Documentary History' and 'The Real Dads Army', I really recommend those hereby. Really interesting, but a bit heavy stuff, worth watching. So if your are interested in some real history go where Sherlock learned how to fold serviettes :)_

_I'd love to get some feedback._


	37. Chapter 37

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 37 **

**Monday**

The next morning John had to work, he had suggested that Sherlock could go to Scotland Yard without him and keep him up to date about what was happening via text message.

Lestrade texted Sherlock twice during the morning and informed him briefly about the interrogation but received no reply.

Around noon he took a break from the observation room to call him, but no one picked up, so he called John, who called Mrs Hudson, who told John that Sherlock was still sleeping.

Greg frowned at the text he received from John that told him about a sleeping Sherlock, but accepted that the man was not really well and put his staff off until he came in by himself.

The DI himself still felt the aftermath of being drugged and the double shift they had done the day before. Sherlock deserved to sleep, should sleep in fact. He just hoped he'd for once get some real rest. Seeing Sherlock sleeping on the ground had unsettled him and he was now worrying more than ever.

A short time later Mycroft called and suggested an official meeting, he promised to bring his brother in if he hadn't arrived on his own by 15:00.

.

When Mycroft arrived at the flat at 14:30 Sherlock was busy playing the violin, which he had done since he had woken up an hour ago, according to Mrs Hudson, who stopped him downstairs before he could climb the stairs. She also told the older Holmes that he barely played these days and that she was really worried therefore.

Mycroft heard how sloppy his brother's fingers were on the strings and assured her he'd take care of it.

.

When Mycroft entered the living room, Sherlock didn't even realise it at first, he was concentrating on trying to make his fingers work as he was used to, but they didn't.

He was trying to use the independent new level of the mind palace to play, but since there was no data or notes there, it was kind of futile. Therefore he tried to play from sheets but it was not as relaxing as from memory.

Only when the tip of the bow suddenly got stuck in midair he opened his eyes in surprise.

His brother had gripped it with two fingers and held it, preventing Sherlock to pull it over the strings.

"Don't!" Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm here to pick you up. You haven't reacted to calls, texts or the doorbell."

"I'm busy."

"Lestrade wants you in for the meeting," Mycroft said.

"I won't go, not yet. They can wait. The perpetrator doesn't talk anyway."

"They started interrogating him in the morning without you, because you didn't reply."

Sherlock looked a bit affronted but only for a few seconds.

"What are we waiting for? For you to finish your practicing session? You shouldn't overdo it, your fingers need to get callus back, it'll do you no good playing excessively after a pause this long."

Mycroft gripped Sherlock's left hand and turned it upside down to see his fingertips, which caused the violin neck to hover mid-air, hold by Sherlock's chin and shoulder.

Some fingertips had started to form blisters, all of them were red, if he didn't stop now he wouldn't be able to play in the upcoming weeks at all.

He used the bow to gently poke Mycroft's chest and get his hand free, then put the violin back in her case.

"You found out some things about the bunker, didn't you?"

"Yes, we are expected for a meeting with the Met and Scotland Yard. I'm sure you can wait another few minutes to listen to it all, especially since you chose not to communicate for hours. This can't be too pressing, can it?"

Sherlock grunted.

"You go, I'll follow later."

Sherlock was even more unnerved and less eager to meet his obnoxious brother than usual.

"Why the delay?"

"I will come _later_. Go away."

"You're waiting for John, how nice of you."

Sherlock knew his brother would figure it out. He was not even sure why he wanted to wait for his former flatmate. There was absolutely no logical reason why Sherlock should wait for him to come. John had told him he had to work, and suggested the detective went ahead and he'd come from work directly to Scotland Yard as soon as he was finished, but something made Sherlock reluctant about the idea although he couldn't figure it out.

"Have you become dependent on your _goldfish_?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, I think you're in dire need of psychological help and your dear doctor is not the right person to solemnly rely on, besides, he is clearly overextended with working in a surgery and being a fulltime babysitter for you."

"What?" Sherlock was badly surprised by the sudden change to what he considered a rather sensitive topic.

"You heard me, I see no need to repeat myself. You need help. You're getting worse."

"Stop intruding, it's no business of yours. I'm fine."

"No, you are not. You're a mess, far from your usual level of performance. Don't you see? I can recommend some very good specialists that have the necessary security clearance."

"I said 'no'!"

"Already checked with them for openings in their time tables," Mycroft continued as if he hadn't heard. Then held out a small piece of paper with several dates and names.

"I don't need a psychiatrist!"

"Yes, you do, now stop acting like a child and get some professional help."

"I am fine!"

"If you are _not_ able to see how slow and unproductive your work is currently, then you must be worse than I thought. Or have you become too fainthearted to deduce your own state? Isn't that what _normal_ people do?"

This touched a nerve and Sherlock felt himself become more angry than he should, he knew his brother's teasing, he should be able to ignore it.

"Go away Mycroft!" he yelled.

"Even if I go, the problem will stay, and John is not able to help you properly. Open your eyes and let somebody help."

As was Sherlock's, Mycroft's voice was getting louder.

He then reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand and put the piece of paper into it.

This time Sherlock flinched, hard, when touched.

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had expected it and therefore they both stared at Sherlock's hand.

"Proving my point, isn't it?" the older brother said in a demonstratively soothing tone after some long moments of silence.

"Piss off Mycroft," and with that, Sherlock turned away and headed to his room, banging the door shut after himself.

With a sight Mycroft left the flat, but texted John as soon as he reached his car.

.

'Sherlock is sulking, refusing to come to Scotland Yard, if there is a possibility to come home earlier, everyone would be delighted. MH.'

'What happened?' John texted an answer within a few moments.

'I suggested he understands he is not 'fine' and sees a specialist. I also tried to take him to Scotland Yard. He refused. MH'

'Great,' John answered sarcastically and then decided he was too angry at Mycroft to write more. He could imagine how sensitive the man had been. Of course Sherlock would not admit how he really was to his loving brother.

What was Mycroft thinking? He couldn't really be that dense, to think that telling Sherlock he needed a psychiatrist could bring any positive outcome.

John rearranged his schedule and made someone else take over the only two patients that were urgent, then left for Baker Street.

When he arrived, he found the consultant in his bed and it took him quite some time until he managed to convince Sherlock to even sit up, only to find out was dizzy and suffering from quite a headache, as well as the aftermath of Mycroft's visit.

Sherlock was convinced the first two were side effects from his medication and refused to talk about it or let the doctor take a look at him. It took John a long time to coax him out of his bed and into some fresh clothes, but finally they were on their way to Scotland Yard.

.

The meeting had been postponed, not because of Sherlock but because of the interrogation, which was still in progress.

Sherlock directly headed to the interrogation room, not bothering to inform anyone he had arrived. Without hesitating he knocked on the observation room's door, and after a moment Lestrade came out. But instead of talking to the man Sherlock passed him and went in.

Greg stood outside, irritated for a moment, then closed the door from the outside.

"What happened?" he addressed John.

"Mycroft happened. Told him he's nuts and needs help, if I got it right, that is. He's not talking about it."

"Why didn't he come in this morning?"

"I don't know, Greg, had to work, told him to go ahead. He didn't. Maybe he feels like shit from the meds' side effects. He's not talking about that, either."

The DI looked uneasy and sighed.

"Okay, let's go in, shall we..."

John followed him into the dark room.

Sally could be seen through the window that showed the interrogation room, the perpetrator and another man John didn't know were in there with her. Sally was talking but the suspect definitely wasn't.

Sherlock watched them intensely, standing close to the window that provided a one way view into the other room, his hands behind his back, the scarf sloppily hanging out of his coat's pocket, one of the ends almost brushing over the floor.

"Up to now it has been very exhaustive and boring. He's not talking. If he says anything at all he is sneering at us. Seems to be a real sociopath… or psychopath, the psychologist will arrive within the hour, I hope," Lestrade explained.

"Who's in there with Sally?"

"Our police psychologist, only one available until the specialist arrives, who was called to Dover for another case last week."

"Psychopath," Sherlock diagnosed.

"Oh really, you have studied psychology while you were away?" Greg teased.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"This is getting us nowhere, let me talk to him."

"No."

Before Sherlock could start to make a fuss, Lestrade was so free with him, that he tugged at his sleeve. Sherlock looked at him with an irritated frown, ready to complain about the gesture.

"Meeting starts in five. They've got news. Come on, let's go."

Lestrade didn't let go, and it had the intended effect, it loosened the situation. John smiled and Sherlock followed them.

.

The meeting wasn't just a few detectives talking about the case. There were at least twenty people in the room, high ranking military men as well as royal military police and agents, that clearly looked like Mycroft's, and Lestrade's people.

Mycroft was attending, too, but one of his agents and one of Lestrade's man were leading the conversation.

"The bunker we found yesterday should have only been accessible with a military permission," the agent stated and John heard Sherlock growl silently next to him.

"It turned out the body in the house was Benjamin Miller, a retired military man. Worked in administration about fifteen years ago, that was also when information in the military files about the bunker ceased to exist," the agent continued, then gestured to a man in a military uniform, who continued.

"We assume Sgt Miller has taken over the bunker that happened to be in the backyard of his parents estate. He must have accquired the keys and the files that documented it's existence, since he had - at some point in his career - access to the keys. We checked and the military is no longer in possession of any keys to the facility at all. Only one document remained that showed it had been marked as inspected repeatedly and due to a security hazard forbidden to be entered. So no one ever wondered about it."

"Why did he retire this early?" Sherlock asked, no one in particular.

"Miller suffered from psychological problems that made him paranoid," a man in uniform answered, his the name tag said _Captain Hobbs_.

"Obviously, it was him then, who furnished the bunker and converted it into a living space. Have you checked with his therapist if he was afraid of terror acts or a war?" Sherlock asked.

Several eyebrows went up and John had to look away, otherwise he would have grinned about it.

"He indeed had a therapist, but she died years ago in an accident. There are hints in the files that he was afraid of some kind of attack on Great Britain, and that those affected his work."

"So, our suspect only took over what was already there. Cause of death?" Sherlock jumped topics.

"Mrs Hooper will do the autopsy first thing tomorrow, you are free to join her," Lestrade offered and some more eyebrows were raised, "…but everything points to overdose or poisoning. Something that made him die sitting in the armchair," Lestrade explained.

"Is the father, Col. Marc Daniel Alexander, in any way linked to this?" Greg asked the royal military police representative, Brown.

"Miller and him were close friends twenty years ago, we assume that's how our suspect, Ian, must have met the man and knew of the bunker. We were able to speak to former collegues and they told us the friendship suddenly broke up under odd circumstances."

"Oh," Sherlock made softly next to John, but all eyes in the room turned to him.

"Ideas, dear brother?" Mycroft said with a smirk.

"I found out earlier that the father was not too fond of his third child and removed many reminders of him from the house. I assumed the parents weren't getting along, or the child might be illegimiate. There were no pictures at all from after the mother's early death."

"How did you find that out? There's nothing about that in the documents?" Brown asked, but Mycroft raised his hands to stop him. John was amazed to see the man shut his mouth immediately.

"But you have a new theory, haven't you?" Mycroft asked.

"You should be able to make a guess yourself, brother mine," Sherlock spat.

"I could, but why stop you from enlightening us with your deductions?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but continued, "When did this friendship between Miller and the father break up?"

The man consulted his notes, "Around the time the mother died, or shortly after it. You mean they might have had an affair?"

"That wouldn't explain why the man hated the child."

"Maybe Miller was the father," Mycroft's agent suggested.

"We can order a genetic test," Lestrade's forensics guy suggested.

"Unnecessary, he looks way too much like his father," Sherlock explained. "I assume the boy was in some way assaulted or molested or whatever by Miller and told his parents about it. But the mother was busy with being sick and the father busy with worrying about her being sick, so they didn't care, or blamed it on the child, or told him he was a liar, easiest way, happens all the time. Especially since he doesn't seem too fond of honesty."

"What makes you say that?" someone asked.

Sherlock directed a questioning gaze at Hobbs and Brown.

But the person who answered was one of Mycroft's computer specialists, "Mr Holmes seems to be right, we found out Ian was dishonourably discharged because he lied repeatedly and 'nicked' equipment."

"The vaccination guns?" Sherlock asked.

"No, those were decommissioned long before his time, but guess who signed the forms that documented that those were taken away to be demolished?" Hobbs asked.

"Miller," John and Sherlock guessed, almost simultaneously.

"Right."

"So, he was a chronic liar, maybe even as a child, and nobody believed him when he told the truth. The father probably just ignored what his son had told him. Or punished him with ignorance for his 'lies'… but somehow the friendship between the father and Miller ended nevertheless."

"Maybe he found out his son was not lying at all?" John suggested.

"Or he simply asked Miller what had happened between him and Ian and that already made them split up," now Greg spoke.

"Possible, especially if the child was telling the truth," Mycroft stated. "Also possible that the father later felt guilty for punishing the child wrongly and he tried to protect him when he found out about his son's recent wrongdoing, because he had a bad conscience."

"So Ian killed Miller to get the bunker and revenge his horrible experiences."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

"And lived from this pension, the cheques were cashed," Hobbs explained.

"Yes, maybe Miller had shown it to the young boy and later Ian remembered that it fit his needs. It is also possible he needed a place to stay or money after his discharge and blackmailed Miller to help him. Miller also knew how the military administration worked, which was exactly what - what was the name, Jan? - needed. He probably made him do it or teach him. We better ask him directly. When can I see him?"

"We'll talk about that later. Are there any more questions?" Mycroft asked.

They spoke about more details and looked at pictures from the bunker. The military men were eager to learn in detail what had happened and the meeting went on for another two hours.

Sherlock was getting more and more unnerved, until Greg decided to take him for a smoke. John followed.

When they returned the meeting had mostly resolved and the military men had left.

Mycroft told Sherlock he could watch but was not allowed to join the interrogation, which made the younger Holmes downright furious, so John dragged him home to prevent any riots between the brothers in public.

The good thing was Sherlock allowed John to take him home. Initially John's reasoning seemed not welcome, but Sherlock, when John - in an unobserved moment - rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and looked him in the eyes, listened.

"Let's just go home."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged and the defeat made John wince, maybe it was a bad idea to not help him in the fight, but John was convinced it was necessary to make a retreat and bolster him up in private.

"Sherlock, I'm not suggesting you are wrong, or he is right or anything. I just don't think fighting is a good idea. We'll find another solution, talk to Greg later. This is getting us nowhere at the moment. He won't give in, you won't give in, since we know that already the logical choice is to shorten this and leave. Besides, you are more angry at him for whatever has happened between the two of you at home… and this is not the way to solve it."

"Kind of lame," Sherlock hissed.

"Yes," John agreed. "Or maybe I just think he's not worth the effort."

This made Sherlock's lips twitch slightly and when John directed him to the exit he followed him outside and then home.

John was well aware they needed to address what had unsettled Sherlock earlier but it was not first priority right now.

.

A few minutes later in the cab John used the situation to address another problem first, it was bugging him and he decided to just to ask, even though the atmosphere was already tense Sherlock had followed his lead a few moments before.

"Sherlock, you know what a trigger is, right? I mean in the sense of PTSD?"

"Yes of course. How would I have been able to try to evade yours otherwise?" Sherlock's tone was not as hostile as John had feared it would be.

"What? You _did_ that?"

"Hm," Sherlock frowned, obviously not eager to admit it, "After Baskerville… it made me… I didn't want to… It was not nice of me, wasn't it?"

"You mean… the lab? No, no, it wasn't."

"I just had kind of… general knowledge about the topic before I met you, I read a bit after you moved in… and then I read more later… when…"

"Wait, wait. You read books about PTSD?"

Sherlock hesitated, as if wondering if it was not nice to answer honestly.

"Yes?"

"Jesus, did _everyone_ I knew read books about PTSD?" John rolled his eyes, half astonished, half moved by the fact.

"How many people do you think you knew, were aware you were diagnosed with it?"

"Harry and you."

"Did Harry read a book?"

John chuckled in sarcasm, "I can't imagine she'd do something like that… but neither could I imagine _you _would."

"I don't understand. Was is rude?"

"No, Sherlock probably not, it was nice I guess."

"Then why…?"

"I am just not… I feel… I don't know."

Instead of talking about Sherlock's problems they had drifted off into John's, but the doctor realised this was the right way to start this kind of topic.

"I don't understand the question, then."

"Never mind, Mary read something, too," John grinned to lighten the situation, although it didn't feel easy at all. "I guess it makes me feel exposed, but overall it is a nice thing to do. It shows care. Thank you."

When Sherlock looked no longer as if he had blundered again, John assumed it was okay. He had just bared another crucial factor of his PTSD, to show Sherlock he understood how awkward it was to talk about it, to bare one's soul. He hadn't planned it, it had just happened, but Sherlock needed to hear this once more.

The doctor decided not to return to the initial question and destroy the atmosphere, and for the next days he decided to insert brief things like this into their future conversations, just to create a sense of normality when it came to the process of talking about it, not intensely, just a bit at a time.

John made sure it was a relaxed evening, as it had been when they had lived together, watching the news, showing Sherlock the new blog entry he was about to publish, listening to his scandalised ranting about John's choice of words, and eating pastries for dinner with him.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_So, writing/making up the case was some hard work, and now, that it is almost solved, Sherlock's issues will become more prominent._

_I'd love to get some constructive criticism or a review._

_Thank you for reading._


	38. Chapter 38

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 38**

**Tuesday**

Tuesday morning John made an unwilling and grumpy Sherlock get up early to join Molly with the autopsy. He was a bit worried because usually mummified corpses were high on the consultant's lists of interesting dead bodies but they apparently weren't this day. They dropped him off on their way to the surgery, he had barely spoken until then.

John's workday was not unusual, at least not until lunch break, which went quite different from what he had planned. He left the surgery to get some fresh goods and had just rounded the corner when a black limousine came to a stop next to him.

Mycroft, obviously.

The door opened and John saw the older Holmes in the back of the car, a fake smile on his face. He entered and sat down next to the man.

"What is it that you don't want him to hear?"

"He needs treatment, John," Mycroft dropped the bombshell immediately.

"Yes, yes he does, but as I said before we'll do this at _his_ pace and with the tools _he_ approves."

"I don't think we can allow him to be his picky self with this. I was very patient very long, but now I'm getting a bit anxious that he'll harm himself or someone else if he's not treated properly, soon."

"Mycroft, the main issue here - right now - is that _he_ needs to find out if he could benefit from treatment and which circumstances he needs for it to work. That means learning about PTSD therapy and EMDR is the fist step. Maybe he'll understand he needs that treatment then by himself. _He_ needs to make the decision…"

"Good luck with that. Sherlock Holmes will never even start to think about it," Mycroft almost spat the words.

"We made a lot of progress the past week, he told me about some of his problems and I could convince him to take medication. That's a good start. If you are aware it is _Sherlock_ we're talking about here, you should know this alone is almost a wonder of the world."

"I am aware, but it's nevertheless too slow. He needs to understand how bad he really is and how dire in need of help."

"He's getting there. What do you want to do? Put him in a mental institution? It won't work. You'll harm not only his trust in you, but his health and soul more than you could ever imagine. He'd never forgive you for that."

"I'm well aware, but if this is what is needed to keep him alive and away from drugs then that's what I'll do."

"It won't. As I see it, any version of putting pressure on him would have exactly this effect. He knows very well about his issues, he's not stupid. And he has a remarkable level of control about it, many people in his situation wouldn't have, because he's… Sherlock."

"Your point?" Mycroft sighed.

"Let him be himself and find his own way to deal with it, I'll keep a close eye on it, and keep him on track. Of course I plan to try to make him agree to some sort of therapy sooner or later, but he needs to get to the point where he wants it on his own, maybe with some gentle nudges or a bit of fond yelling on my part, but not from you and not with force! That's essential."

"He needs to understands he can't work like this. I can't do what I did with more cases. This case… this was not really my area, I got involved in something that is not supposed to be done by me."

John suddenly realised Mycroft must have taken over quite a lot of the investigation in order to protect Sherlock, to keep him safe.

"Keeping him away from things will only make him worse," John said.

"Well, involving him made him worse, too."

"It confronted him with things that must have been difficult, yes, but on the other hand, if he hadn't experienced it, neither he nor me would have a clue what was wrong. It certainly wasn't a good way to explore this, but as I know Sherlock, it was the only one."

"So what do you suggest, doctor?" Mycroft said it in a tone, that was clearly meant to question his expertise in this matter.

"I suggest we give him cases we deem safe."

"And you think that will work?" Mycroft said with pity.

"To a certain degree, and if you and Lestrade work with me here. He needs to know he's not damaged. And he needs to know he can do the work, because it is what might be keeping him alive at the moment. Do not take that away, it might really break him," John stated.

But Mycroft seemed to have already understood something else, because he said, "…and not take away _you_, because you do the same?"

"Well, yes. That's possible," John stymied, afraid it might be used against him, otherwise, and added, "Maybe it's even mutual, maybe we both need each other."

"Oh, he's getting on with Mary then?"

"Better than I had hoped, to be exact."

Mycroft looked as if he hadn't expected that.

"Then why does she stay at home?"

"She needs to do things. Your brother was not happy about it in the beginning. She argued we need to work an Sherlock's issues in private, she's giving us space."

Another thing the other man obviously hadn't seen or had misinterpreted.

"So it's all domestic bliss at 221b?"

John ignored the question, mainly because of the ironic inflexion.

"Just… let's go on as it is. He's getting better, it takes time, which is normal! Maybe it takes a bit longer because he's Sherlock, but this is part of the process, just let it evolve."

The car stopped at a sign of Mycroft's hand and John understood it was his cue to get out.

"Good day, John," Mycroft said in a frosty tone.

John felt this conversation had been as fruitless as the previous ones about the same topic.

How often would they have this discussion in the future?

The doctor hoped Mycroft would be patient for another few weeks.

He found himself in front of the bakery and hurried to do his shopping.

.

John knew that if he'd try to start a conversation with Sherlock beginning with 'we need to talk' it would get him nowhere, so he didn't. Instead, when he came home in the early afternoon, he sat down on the kitchen table, where Sherlock was analysing samples from the mummified body.

The consultant was wearing his dark red dressing gown, pyjama pants and another inside out t-shirt. John had made tea an put his laptop down on the corner of the table, carefully moving a few beakers out of the way, putting them down in the exact same order they had been. Sherlock traced where John put them minutely but said nothing.

They worked silently side by side for almost half an hour.

"Found something yet?" John finally started a conversation when Sherlock had visibly relaxed. Of course the detective had noticed John was staying close for a reason.

"Nothing new."

"News about the interrogation?"

"Still not talking."

"Did the mummy's smell cause you any trouble?"

Sherlock froze for a moment, then continued his work and shook his head.

"What smells _do_ cause you the most trouble, lately?"

"Nothing is causing me trouble."

"Not good, Sherlock."

"Was worth a try," Sherlock said dryly but at least with a tint of mischief in his voice.

John realised it was not a close door at least.

"So, what do we need to evade?"

"Evade?"

"You read a book about PTSD, so you know what a _trigger_ is, how it works, and what happens if someone is triggered?"

"'course," Sherlock mumbled, obviously at some level aware where John was heading but still not closing the door.

"And?" John poked gently, shoving the cup of tea in Sherlock's direction.

"Blood, especially in combination with sweat and musty cellars. There might be more, but those are the strongest," the detective explained in a low voice, while his gaze remained fixed on his experiments.

John's internal jaw dropped, they were starting to 'talk' weren't they?

"Can you briefly tell me why those are difficult?"

Sherlock explained while he continued his work. He changed the slides, made notes, but he answered the questions. Although his tone was flat and often hesitating, he told John willingly about what the memories that had recently come back to him, the ones about his time in the empty plant with a homeless man.

John had not expected him to just give in to the request and describe what had happened, had expected Sherlock would resist more, but after all the detective had decided to work with him. John relaxed a bit, too, seeing it as another sign the consultant was actively participating in his efforts.

Though Sherlock's depictions were superficial and John was sure a bit belittled, when the detective described how he had found his saviour in a pool of blood and how the smell of blood was linked to the overwhelming feeling of loss and guilt, his hands were slightly trembling. He tried to hide it by keeping them busy. John felt a bit shaky about the things he learned himself. Sherlock didn't say it directly, but John understood that the smell of the blood had connected with experiencing John's desperation and agony from after the fall, as well as with the worst memories form his 'hiatus', simply because it was present at loads of bad situations, and every time he was confronted with it, it had added to the problem.

The doctor assumed the smell-triggers were all Sherlock knew until now, because those where what he had stumbled into, and then John realised there might be a whole lot more in the future they'd run into.

He himself had needed months to figure out what triggered him, it was always a bad surprise. At least most of his own triggers were connected to loud explosions, the smell of the desert and the feeling of sand everywhere. But the most intense were several things that acutely reminded him to the moments when he felt he was bleeding out and in horrible pain. The sensations that were closely connected to the moments when he was experiencing his approaching death, some where from when he had watched comrades die.

John gulped down his own problems when it came to talk about it and told Sherlock about these triggers and what happened when he was confronted with them, what it meant to him.

Sherlock denied he had ever faced a situation where he was sure he was about to die at first, but when John gently poked a bit it turned out there had been in fact several occasions when Sherlock had doubted he'd survive.

John was still surprised Sherlock was suddenly so willing to talk about it and wondered if Mycroft had put some strange drug into his flatmate's coffee or blackmailed him somehow. It felt strange to see Sherlock so unguarded and open. But overall this was a threat to all that Sherlock was, to his mind, his innermost core, the most important thing he possessed. He must have finally accepted that he was unable to solve this on his own and was granting John access therefore, it was an immense proof of trust. John couldn't help but feel moved by it once more.

How had he wished in the past weeks Sherlock would open up to him, and now he did.

Due to Sherlock's reactions to John's descriptions the doctor detected the moment it became suddenly too much for his friend and he stirred back into safer grounds.

"Sherlock, why did you drop the weapon?" he changed topics.

"I needed to make sure I wouldn't shoot him," Sherlock knew immediately what he meant.

"Shit, why would you do that?"

"To spare Lestrade and Mycroft a whole week of unnecessary paperwork," Sherlock regained his usual composure.

"I don't believe you. Honestly, why?"

"It would have been over immediately."

"What?"

"Hang on. Did you risk your life because you wanted an adrenaline kick?"

"No…"

"Sherlock!"

"No! Causing a bloodshed would have helped no one. If I had shot him he would have gotten out of this all too fast," he paused and narrowed his eyes, "Uhhh, well, maybe I wanted to use some of my hand to hand fighting abilities, to show off, you know. Prevent me from getting rusted. You see, it was a win-win decision. He's alive, he can face court, I had a bit of practise…" Sherlock sounded put on easy, now he was fully concentrated on John, his work abandoned.

"Bloodshed…" John murmured, not buying it.

"What?"

"I see."

"What?" Sherlock seemed to be irritated by John's sudden kind and gentle muttering.

"You did the right thing. I just wanted to know why. It's fine."

"Fine?" Sherlock spat suddenly, disgust in his voice.

"I didn't mean it like that, don't get pissed."

Sherlock turned back to his microscope.

John had read the file but he wanted to hear Sherlock's own perception of events, because that was all that was relevant for trauma development. Besides, the files were quite superficial and lacked a great deal of facts, so much John had found out already. Only a quarter of what had happened seemed to have made it into the documents.

"Can you tell me a bit more about that homeless man?" he returned to the former topic carefully.

A cold and distanced but minute elaboration of all interactions Sherlock had with the man followed, but when he finished John was hit by sudden understanding.

"Sherlock, you are… grieving."

The comment hit Sherlock like a bolt.

He had answered every question John had thrown at him. The man deserved honesty and he had struggled through all the answers, but this was a bit out of… ? Reason?

"What? That's ridiculous."

"How many people have died for or because of you? I mean _really _died?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he couldn't. Now, for the first time he started thinking about how to end the conversation without making John feel shut out. He had promised not to do it and he'd do his best to try.

"This man died because of you, or for you… for helping you."

Sherlock frowned, searching his mind for others who had suffered the same fate.

Was John right?

No one had died for him. Of course people had died on their jobs when working his him, but the only ones that died because of him were the deaths Moriarty had caused. Or self defence, or… protecting John… and destroying Moriarty's web.

One thing he remembered vividly was the sick feeling when the old woman had been blown up and how odd and comforting it was that John grabbed the back of his chair, it was the only thing he remembered besides the nausea and that the moment seemed to last hours.

It had affected him, a lot… and not only that event. Was he denying the facts? Denying he was suffering from those memories? He needed to find out. He went after the memories, to look at each and every one separately to find out.

After some time, with a slight mental jerk, he realised distantly that John was talking to him, though he couldn't make out the words. He had become lost in the depth of his thoughts, hunting the memories.

This had happened before, on several occasions in the past weeks, although he wasn't in his Mind Palace. It was unsettling, his mind shutting out speech. But now that he thought about it, he was also no longer aware of his eyesight, too.

That had also happened before, he had been wandering through bad memories so deep that he had to be dragged out of them.

But this time, he didn't even try to answer, this was more important. He needed to go after those thoughts, figure it out, find the sources and eliminate it.

He _had_ been focussed on bad memories or had been dragged into them by things like a smell… On every single occasion his mind had shut out external input when it happened.

No, his consciousness had been _hauled_ into a dark version of rusty caves of the mind, had been dragged along.

He had struggled against it, but the force that drew him in was stronger.

It was almost impossible to stay out of these reminders of bad events. It felt as if it was not his mind space, but a cruel version of memory storage that made him witness the violence repeatedly, like a broken record. It felt foreign and strangely disconnected.

Analysing it was bringing him dangerously close to entering one of those dark chambers of reminiscences once more, he felt the force that tried to suck him in. But the moment he became aware of that, it had already happened.

His body was suddenly gone, out of reach. He was no longer sure about where he was and what was really happening. Time was gone, reality was gone, life was gone.

Like being trapped in a bad dream, half aware it must be a dream, scurrile and… He _hurt_.

For god's sake, he had been sucked into it again, fully aware and not able to prevent it! The pain had been there before, too.

The intense ugliness of his surroundings threatened to make him sick and the horrifying pressure made him realise panic was lurking nearby, ready to succumb him any moment.

His back hurt.

He _needed_ to get out!

But although he tried to gather strength to fight and escape, he was fully aware it must be futile.

The viscousness prevented mental movement.

Something soft and gentle surprised him when it settled down on the back of his neck, it was warm and he felt suddenly heavy and unable to carry this burden any longer.

He exhaled loudly through his open mouth, glad his body was back.

The contrast between the agony and the soft touch was so shocking he had to blink away the wetness of pain.

"Sherlock?"

John was next to him, very close. He felt his warmth and his smell grounded him.

"Hey? What's going on?"

He tried to calm down.

"I'm sorry," John said.

What was he sorry for?

"I didn't mean to… Do you know what just happened?"

Sherlock shook his head, still fighting the feelings that had just bombarded him with unknown horror.

"Were you aware where you are?"

He shook his head once more.

"Were you trapped in your memories?"

He said nothing, not sure if his voice would be steady. Shame tinted his perception. The kitchen felt bleak and foreign.

"You probably dissociated. Thinking about things that are connected with the trauma, probably caused you to retreat into your own mind. It's kind of a protection mechanism."

"No… Maybe."

"What then, what happened?"

"I don't know, tried to analyse it, remember it."

"Flashback? You had one of those at the hospital, too, right?"

"That... Yes, hospital. Smell of blood, brought me back to the cellar… When I analysed how the memories affected me they drew me in. I tried to get out, tried to retreat. I was not inside the memories itself, not when I… lost the connection."

"All right. When that happens you feel kind of detached, from physical and emotional experience, right? It's as if your mind has retreated into a safe corner of your awareness. That's called association."

John was probably right, he had felt uncoupled from reality. He nodded.

"Maybe first the one and then the other. It started like… when I tried to remember, and then I… retreated."

"Okay. I think we should better leave it there for now."

"No. Ask what you need and get it over with."

"Sherlock, there is no _getting over with it_ in one go. This is a slow process, you are welcome to tell me things, please do. But this will take time and care. Don't force it and don't do it because you feel urged, by me or yourself or anyone else."

"I left you and it made me miserable," Sherlock had said it before he had even thought it, he was surprised by it himself.

But the astonishment that was written on John's face was even worse, because he couldn't place it.

"Hamburg," he suddenly remembered one long day in the harbour town, where he had first experienced what he'd describe as a flashback in hindsight, being brought back into sinister memories.

"What does that mean? What happened there?"

He tried to explain to him what little he remembered of that night.

The imaginary John had walked up and down the posh hotel room in Hamburg's Speicherstadt, listening to that John's steps when he was dizzy and sick with worry had been a lifeline.

He had intended to sleep, but ended up leaned against the mattress, sitting upright on the floor, too exhausted to undress or climb onto the wooden bed.

A bit later, after another devastating nightmare, his mind-palace-doctor had tried to comfort him, he was almost delirious with… something. Had dragged all the blankets over to the large floor-to-ceiling-windows that overlooked the waterways of the dull grey and red brick town.

He had collapsed on the heap of expensive softness, his face almost touching the glass, and… he had fought the aftermath of the first flashback he had ever had, not understanding what was happening.

The need to be home with John, it was so overwhelming he lost his grip on reality for quite some time.

His body temperature had risen and he felt feverish, he had touched the glass and enjoyed it's coldness. In that state of panic and anguish imaginary John had entered his delirious mind and spoken to him, helped him through the night.

"Thank you. You… kept me from…," Sherlock elaborated surprisingly honest what he remembered.

"Right, then. You _are_ aware I wasn't really there, aren't you?"

"No. Yes… in a way you were."

John smiled at him, but Sherlock saw the hidden worry. The warm hand remained and Sherlock closed his eyes to relish that it was really there and not imagined, it was real and heavy and…

"What else came back to you in the past days?" John gently continued and Sherlock was glad he actually _asked_, because he knew he wouldn't have the strength to keep this conversation going by himself, wouldn't have known how to do it, how to start, how to go on. But when John was leading it poured out of him.

He told John whatever the other man wanted to know, and three hours later, when he felt his temperature rose once more from the stress of the conversation, John stood up.

"God, we need to sleep…"

Unceremoniously John dragged him to bed, and he just gave in. It was John. It was the middle of the night apparently. He could trust John.

He was far too tired to decide on his own anyway.

.

John watched Sherlock fall asleep as soon as he had curled onto the heap of blankets on the floor. At least this riddle was solved, it was kind of a strong image now, that he knew Sherlock had lain alone on a floor, grieving, and missing him so desperately he had summoned a virtual version of him.

As so often before what Sherlock had revealed affected John strongly. He sat down next to the sleeping figure, leaned against the wall, at almost the same position where Sherlock had collapsed some days ago.*

He was upset, too, he knew, but it was good that things were getting into the light, as bad as the process was.

When would this stop to hurt?

When Sherlock winced silently in his sleep a few moments later, he rested a hand on his friend's shoulder and quietly spoke to him. It was nonsense, but talking helped.

Just show presence, as his virtual counterpart had done. John shook his head, only Sherlock could come up with a virtual version of him to cope.

Today they had made big steps forward. John had not dared to hope that Sherlock would tell him all these things. He was positively surprised and it was a good sign, he was glad he had vindicated Sherlock's way of doing this in front of Mycroft today.

John spent another night in Sherlock's room, not wanting to leave him alone, though he moved onto the bed later.

Before he fell asleep he remembered that the conversation had started with the question how to evade triggers. That was one thing they hadn't actually talked about.

He remembered the mind palace session with the basil leaves. They needed to think of real-life coping mechanisms soon.

…

* * *

…

_*This happens in chapter 22 of 'Lessons in Friendship 8 - Vulnerability'_

_…_

_One thing about the trial that was depicted in the mini-episode: I know very little about formalities of German administration of justice, but usually a court decision is made by one or three judges and two more persons of the law (could maybe described as 'judges who work in a honorary capacity' for a term of five years). If there is anyone out there being able to describe this better, please tell me. _

_But it is not done by an 'unprofessional' jury like in the US, in Germany the judges decide._

_._

_Constructive criticism welcome, reviews too._


	39. Chapter 39

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

…

* * *

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**Chapter 39**

**Wednesday**

Sherlock went to Scotland Yard the next morning, invited by Lestrade, who had hinted that he considered to allow Sherlock to join him in the interrogation room.

Alexander still hadn't talked and Scotland Yard seemed to be willing to let Sherlock try, before Mycroft's man could take things out of their hands.

In the middle of the afternoon John was surprised when he entered his office. He expected his next patient to wait for him but was confronted with Sherlock and Lestrade.

Sherlock had a shiner and they both looked dishevelled.

"Sorry, John, but I didn't want to leave him alone at Baker Street. He's a bit agitated."

"I'm not agitated, and don't talk about me as if I'm not in the room," Sherlock yelled.

John flinched about the sudden outburst and heard a murmur from outside.

"All right, I can see that, mate, sit down," John said with raised eyebrows.

"Our consultant here worked hard and has finally been able to get at a reaction out of the perpetrator," Lestrade's voice was dripping with sarcasm, "He managed to provoke him by a rude questioning style and uttering a theory about how the mother's death had affected Alexander. The downside was, that the intensity of the interview stressed our suspect and it resulted in a black eye, two to be more precise."

John stared at Sherlock who's exaggerated fake wide grin made John raise his eyebrows once more, but this time in shock.

"Ian punched him," Lestrade continued, "I was standing only four feet away, but it happened to fast I had no bloody chance to interfere. To my utter surprise Sherlock punched the man back, with the same speed, it was over before I had time to understand what was happening."

Greg hinted bluntly that it seemed Sherlock had not only done it in self defence, but with a bit more force than necessary to simply incapacitate the man. Sherlock refused to accept that Greg suggested he was _angry_. He also didn't sit down, instead ran up and down John's office, his whole posture screamed angry.

"He started!" Sherlock grouched.

"Oh Christ! You shouldn't have punched him back! What's gotten into you? This isn't usually like you… attacking physically!" Greg responded.

After the superficial report the DI, explained he needed to take care of the mess Sherlock had caused and headed for the door.

When the consultant tried to follow him and leave the room, John gently held him back, which annoyed the other man once more, more yelling was the result.

"Sherlock, I swear if you don't calm down and tell me what happened in detail, I'll give you a second shiner," John gave him a false smile in return, not really meaning it, but he was sure his friend knew that.

The doctor was well aware that at times Sherlock was accused of being angry when he wasn't. Sometimes he seemed to be not in control of how his agitation looked on the outside. He might shout or sound pissed although he wasn't. On other occasions his fury was well-orchestrated for case-solving purposes.

But at the moment he was definitely agitated, the only thing was that Sherlock didn't get angry, in the sense of being in rage, not like normal people did, at least.

On the other hand John knew that many patients with PTSD were facing anger management issues and could get quiet upset and aggressive.

But Sherlock never acted on impulse, always pondered about how to proceed. The fact that after being triggered or having a flashback he reacted mostly by withdrawing into himself than with aggression made John sure it wasn't the main factor. He needed to figure this out.

"What is putting additional strain on you _right now_?" John tried a random shot.

"Alexander is…"

"No, _think!_ Why are you still like this? Right _now?_"

The atmosphere was quite tense for a moment, then Sherlock's shoulders sagged and he let himself fall into a chair.

That was kind of a direct answer if one knew Sherlock good enough. He must have realised what amplified his stress or held up the level he had experienced with the perpetrator.

"Disinfectant."

John sat down too, and with his office chair rolled closer to inspect his friend's black eye.

"You mean smelling them in here, right?"

Sherlock allowed him to tilt his head and look at the damage, he nodded when John lifted his chin.

Then the doctor rolled back to his desk and activated the intercom.

"Mary, I need an ice pack and a cup of strong tea for Sherlock."

"On my way," she answered.

"Oh, and can you please air the break room and inform everyone it is out of order for the rest of the shift?"

Sherlock sighed and lowered his head in defeat.

Two hours later the shift ended and they decided to take John's car to Baker Street.

Sherlock had spend the rest of the afternoon in the break room, drinking tea and working on John's laptop. He had calmed down after some alone time, although the smell of the stale coffee machine was bugging him.

"So, what were the important things that drove Alexander?" Mary asked while driving, she was not up to date about the case.

"This morning I found out, that the fibres Molly and I found on the male victim match the carpet from the bunker," Sherlock explained, "He must have been the first one to have been kept in there, which provides us with a time frame for when Alexander started to change his strategy and put more planning and effort into the details."

"Oh, interesting," Mary encouraged him to continue.

"Alexander confirmed…"

"Wait, didn't Lestrade say he wasn't talking?"

"Well, he was kind of belligerent after we exchanged… physical contact. Which led to the exchange of quite a load of facts and… he implicated himself quite thoroughly."

"Oh," John said from the front passenger seat and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"From what I observed today I deduce that he likes - and has always liked - to order others around. Prefers the company of inferior people. Due to his personality he doesn't find people who are willing to do so."

Mary laughed, "Who _would_ be willing, even if the personality was nice?"

"Don't underestimate the ability of sociopaths to manipulate people to make what they want, to use them."

"Sounds as if your sociopath is pretty unsuccessful at being a sociopath," she smiled into the rear view mirror at him.

"Apparently, yes," now Sherlock giggled, "His looks must have added to that. His grooming is dreadful. He must have realised it early, that he wasn't getting what he wanted, I mean, and therefore went for a job that had 'commanding others' in it's very description. He's definitely not stupid, but too narcissistic to climb up the ladder high enough before he was thrown out to prevent it from happening. Tried to speed up his advancement up by lying, but he was caught. Later tried again by stealing things and blaming others, collecting fame for denouncing those that were in his way. Just that it went wrong and _he_ was found out instead."

"Tough luck."

"Although the man has issues with being alone, it was surely not the answer to the question why he murdered his victims, at least I refuse to believe it is that easy," Sherlock stated.

"Since no one wanted to spend time with him he forced people to do so," John summed it up. He agreed to the idea that it might have been one of the motives, but also doubted it was that simple.

Then Sherlock elaborated in more detail what had happened during the day. How the psychologist, who had been present during the interviews, had been very annoying, even more than Anderson used to be. The man seemed clueless before Sherlock had changed the approach of the interview. And after it, was eager to confirm almost every other theory the consultant had suggested. Which - to Sherlock - seemed as if he was trying to toady to him, it had resulted in insults from Sherlock and yelling from the psychologist. That was when Lestrade had taken action and carted the consultant to the surgery.

So Sherlock had been cut short, he had wanted to return to the interview and dig deeper, to find out more about the sinister reasons behind it all but was finally agitated because Lestrade had not allowed it.

.

It was cold in the living room when they arrived home so John started a fire.

Sherlock sat down in his armchair, still in his coat. He lifting his feet up, at least he had removed his shoes before doing so.

A phone rang, and when it turned out to be Mary's, she retreated to the Watson's upstairs room to take the call.

Since it all seemed a bit more relaxed now, John took his chance and asked his semi-flatmate what was on his mind now.

"So, case solved. I guess Scotland Yard will do the rest and the paper work. Well done…" he praised, when there was no reaction he continued, "…except the punch of course. What made you so agitated? Lestrade said he had never seen you like this."

His friend was silent for a long time, his posture still screamed tension, he still looked agitated.

"Did something trigger you?" John finally asked when he received no answer.

"No."

"What happened, then?"

"I don't know."

"You're not the type who gets angry like this, so what happened? What did you react to?"

"I didn't... I don't know."

"Let me help, Sherlock."

"It won't happen again," Sherlock was clearly pissed about himself and about being bugged with it.

A moment later they heard a brief knock at the door and Mycroft entered, they both hadn't heard him arrive.

"I think you should explain it to us, Sherlock," Mycroft said without a greeting, "Because I need to see proof that you haven't gone insane. What you did was quite stupid. But you're running away from your problems, aren't you?"

"Please, Mycroft we're working on this. It's not true and not encouraging," John addressed the older Holmes.

"Today's events don't show that he's getting better in the slightest."

"He's working on it," John said.

"Take care of your own business, Mycroft," Sherlock finally stated, stood up, put some more wood in the fire and sat down at the dinner table, demonstratively ignoring his brother.

"And I can speak for myself, thank you, John," he added, his tone was everything but friendly now.

John's shoulders sagged in frustration. He had been relieved when Sherlock had calmed down and now Mycroft was making it worse again.

"You _need_ professional help, _this_ is not getting better by_ itself_."

Sherlock pretended not to hear him, plugging in his laptop.

John's shook his head with wide eyes to signal Mycroft to not continue, but it was only answered with a frown.

"I can provide a list of excellent therapists, all highly recommended by agents with 'battle fatigue'."

John sighed, fearing Mycroft was destroying the fundament he had built during the past weeks, which he considered still a bit brittle.

If Mycroft was watching the flat, he should know they were making progress. So what was this about?

"You need help, Sherlock. You're behaving erratic and this is not good, neither for you nor for John."

"Don't you dare to use _me_ as an argument in this," John was starting to get pissed now, "I'm perfectly aware of the situation and _this_ is not helping. Let me handle this."

"You're not able to handle this, _doctor_," Mycroft stated.

So that was the reason? The fact that Sherlock - for once - couldn't hold back his distress had caused this? Did Mycroft also think John was not able to handle his friend because he was too bad himself?

"You're misinterpreting the situation, brother dear," Sherlock sneered.

"Really? I think you need to allow somebody to help, and that it would be a gesture of friendship to _not_ unload all this on John's shoulders. Don't flush your goldfishes with this, it will do you no good."

John didn't get the remark but was quite alarmed when Sherlock literally exploded, stood up so fast and with so much force that he knocked over the chair.

"Don't you dare to behave to him like that!" he yelled.

"Oh, getting agitated again? Not wise," Mycroft said coldly.

Sherlock's face froze, and a moment later forcibly relaxed.

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock then said in a totally neutral tone, turned away and headed to his room.

"Running away, as ever."

Sherlock just banged his door shut.

John had closed his eyes in frustration.

"Mycroft, you're ruining everything I gained during the past weeks, he's starting to open up. Don't do this."

"I'm afraid your efforts are far from being enough and you need to take care of yourself and your wife. He needs professional help and therefore - as you said before - he needs to understand that he requires it."

"We're getting there."

"He'll not survive long enough to get there at this rate."

"Whatever I'm doing wrong according to you, do you really believe _this_ will help? This does the opposite!" John was the one getting angry now.

"I only have my bother's well being in mind."

"I know, but this is not the way."

"He needs to understand how bad he really is."

"He knows."

"Since he can't work like this, he _will_ do something stupid sooner or later."

"We know."

"The way he behaved in the past days is quite unusual and I think we need to figure out what is causing his agitation, as soon as possible."

"I'm aware there are _some_ psychologists who suggest confrontation, but I'm not fond of that idea, neither was my therapist. As far as I know patients are better with a careful and fond handling of their issues… besides, those are called 'triggers'. I did my bouts of therapy on PTSD and…"

"Which was not really helpful, wasn't it? Your problems only started to resolve when you found what you needed."

John closed his eyes once more and leaned his head back, trying to get his frustration under control. When he heard receding footsteps he opened them hastily.

Mycroft was heading down the hall and a second later opened the door to Sherlock's room. Cursing, the doctor hurried after the older Holmes.

Sherlock seemed quite startled about the intrusion, he looked up at them, eyes wide in surprise. He had obviously expected his privacy would be respected.

"What is this?" Mycroft asked and pointed at something in his brother's hand.

Without waiting for a reply he stepped forward and reached for his brother's wrist, holding onto it, and thereby kept Sherlock from moving away.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

John couldn't really see what it was.

"Leave!" the consultant insisted.

"I won't! Tell me why you have a bowl of blood on your windowsill."

Sherlock didn't react but when John stepped closer he saw a small bowl.

"This is _not_ healthy! You need help!"

"I am fine!" "Mycroft, don't force him to speak about it. You will hurt him!" John tried to interfere what had turned into more than brothers quarrelling.

"You're lying, and you know how allergic I am to that," to underline his point Mycroft raised both their hands with the small vessel towards their faces.

"If this is _not_ a trigger, what is it?" he urged his younger sibling.

Sherlock turned his face away an inch, but then noticeably forced himself not to move away any further.

"Experiment," the emphasis of the consonants became more pronounced.

"Yes, of course. Mind if I do an experiment of my own?"

The older Holmes lifted the thing even higher, still not letting go of Sherlock's arm.

"Stop it," Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth.

"No."

Then suddenly Sherlock stopped resisting and - with a hard and forced expression on his face - breathed in.

"Why are you confronting yourself with this smell? What happens when you experience it?"

Sherlock kept quiet.

"Mycroft! Stop this!" John stepped closer, realising the situation would escalate soon, "Shit, is that your blood?" he then addressed his friend.

"Yes," Sherlock pressed out, his tone had been quite stubborn, but now John heard the first wavering.

"Is it about the colour?" Mycroft continued to question him, his tone light and teasing.

"No."

"Is it a positive reminder of a reached goal?"

Sherlock struggled, carefully trying to wind out of Mycroft's grip.

Helplessly, John watched, not knowing what to do. He was afraid to stir up the red liquid and release even more of the triggering smell.

"Let me go!" Sherlock hissed.

"Not until you tell me what this is about," Mycroft said in a serious voice.

"It doesn't concern you. We can stand here all day if you have nothing to do, I don't mind."

"Fine. Well, maybe I need to take a break in about three hours, calling the secret service, but until then, no," Mycroft kept a neutral facial expression, trying to sound easy.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock spit, but did no longer to wind out of his brother's grip, which surprised John even more than anything else about the whole bizarre situation.

Was Sherlock trying to prove something here?

"It is," the older Holmes agreed.

"Mycroft, please stop this," John requested once more in a strong voice.

"No. I'm sorry but if he doesn't tell me, I need to figure this out on my own. Apologies for the inconvenience."

Sherlock just stared at his brother, now something else was mixing into his stressed expression. Which meant he was well aware of what was happening.

Mycroft kept the shallow bowl near their faces, inspecting it in the dim light.

"You mixed in an anticoagulant?"

"Yyess," Sherlock pressed out.

The doctor saw more signs of stress coming up, a clenched jaw, shallow breathing, pallor.

"What for?" Mycroft remained his usual uninterested self.

"Less… messy."

John was well aware of Sherlock's distress, as was Mycroft. The first tiny peals of sweat were forming on Sherlock's forehead and his gaze had become somewhat fixed.

John frantically tried to figure out a way how to dissolve the situation. Then he suddenly realised why Sherlock was keeping a bowl with blood on his windowsill, his jaw kind of dropped. Sherlock was confronting himself with the smell trying to numb the intense reaction it caused.

"Shit," he mumbled, but was completely ignored by the two brothers.

"Is it important that it's human blood?" the older Holmes asked in a false sweet tone that made John want to punch him. He understood Mycroft was trying to prove the same thing he had just realised.

Sherlock hesitated but his breathing was getting faster.

Planning to carefully take the bowl out of their hands and stop this, John moved closer. But before he could reach for it, without a warning, Sherlock swayed, his overstressed nerves taking a toll on his body.

Reflexively he reached for the nearest thing to stabilise himself, which happened to be his brother's shoulder.

The movements disturbed the bowl and the red liquid spilled over the side of Sherlock's face, his shoulder and chest, and also over the front of Mycroft's suit jacket, as wells as John's sleeve and hand.

The amount of blood in the bowl was far more than John had expected.

Sherlock sucked in a loud breath that sounded horrified, then he sagged downward and landed on his hands and one knee.

While Mycroft stood there frozen, too perplexed to brace his brother's fall, he looked down on himself and the mess they had just made.

John was equally surprised. He had expected a reaction to the smell from his former flatmate, but not _this_.

The smell of stench multiplied, which made John wince.

"Shit, shit, shit…" he cursed.

The next moment Sherlock had regained at least a minimal amount of composure and managed to be back on unsteady feet.

Before anyone could act he escaped into the bathroom.

The door was locked behind him immediately.

"Shit!"

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_Thanks for reading._

_I'd love to get some feedback._


	40. Chapter 40

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

_._

_Sorry this took so long, but about two weeks ago someone published a chapter where almost the same things happened I had written for this chapter months ago, so I ended up rewriting most parts of it. Then I trashed it because it was awful. The third version was awful, too and then I was incapacitated for several days. So this is the fourth. __It is still very hard for me to write 'comfort' and I'm rather insecure about it._

_I hope with the few remaining chapters I will manage to update every week as usual. I'm very sorry to have produced a cliff-hanger and then let you wait so long :( _

_To make it up to you this chapter is extra long._

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 40**

For a moment the older Holmes and John just stared at each other, though John had one eye on the door, tracking Sherlock's movements in the dark bathroom through the glass of the door. When more white appeared in the movements John was sure Sherlock had taken off his suit jacket.

Good, not too distressed to relieve his stress, then.

Mycroft's posture was odd but John didn't care. He was busy deciding how long he'd wait until he'd follow Sherlock, but he needed to get rid of Mycroft first.

"He's having another panic attack, isn't he?" the older Holmes asked.

"I don't know. Obviously, he's in there and I'm out here. I'd prefer to go see for myself. He was clearly stressed by the smell. I need to prevent this from turning into something more severe. So if you'd excuse me…"

But instead of just leaving it to him, as John had hoped, the older Holmes followed him towards the bathroom door.

John stopped, the last thing Sherlock needed was unwanted company.

When the doctor heard the shower was turned on, he was relieved that Sherlock was aware enough to wash off the blood. He watched the figure slowly step into the tub through the glass window of the door.

"Don't! This was unnecessary cruel and will throw us back weeks!" he criticised sharply.

"I can't possibly… I didn't think this…" Mycroft's superior tone was suddenly gone.

"No, you didn't think. That was my point from the beginning. Let _me_ handle this!" his voice carried obvious anger now. "You know your stoic behaviour will not help him."

Mycroft tried to pass him and now John decided to interfere with more force, he grabbed the British government's upper arm.

"Don't!"

John let go immediately, the gesture should be enough.

Mycroft hissed in discomfort, John hadn't touched him with that much force.

Sherlock was slowly moving around in the shower and still seemed to be busy washing off the blood, that meant he was neither totally out of it nor puking.

"Are we supposed to wait until he passes out then?" Mycroft asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.

"No! I want you to stay away. Whatever happens, he'll feel like shit as soon as he is through it, and he won't be happy. Let me handle this for god's sake!"

"John, you're not able to do this alone. Let me call a specialist."

At least Mycroft was waiting for his consent, or pretended to.

"He won't agree to see a psychiatrist or therapist at the moment, so it is not the time! I know, I have been there. He trusts me, we need to work this out together. Not only for his sake, but mine, too. He needs people he trusts, that might be more important than their qualification."

"When he was _away_, your absence made him behave irrational. Sentiment was disturbing his work. He even talked to me about it briefly, he hadn't displayed so much care for another human being in years, maybe ever," Mycroft's tone had more similarities with someone thinking out loud than with addressing someone.

"What?" John spit, he was irritated about the sudden change of topics.

Suddenly Mycroft's face showed a hint of something John interpreted as pain. How had his whole posture changed within two minutes? Mycroft was supposed to be as stubborn as his little brother.

"I'm afraid I _have_ seen him like this before, erratic and angry. The first time it led to drug use… and at the most recent event he freaked out in my study and… John, I can't risk him falling back into old habits. I have to admit and accept that I can't protect him like this. I _need_ him to be save."

When Mycroft did another step towards the bathroom door and reached for the handle he grimaced.

John was now sure he was physically hurting somewhere. But the door was blocked and didn't open, John strategically stood in the door to the hallway, blocking the other way to the bathroom.

"Wait, weren't _you_ the one who told him caring was a disadvantage? Repeatedly?" John remembered Sherlock had said it once, and when he had asked where he got that nonsense he had explained it was advice from his brother. Mycroft later referred to it when John was present, too.

"Yes, of course, and I learned that _because _I care for _him_. It made my life so much harder, that I do. I have told you often enough that I care."

John shook his head.

"So, show it! Care. He needs care right now. Not somebody paying for people who's job it is to pretend they care. He needs _real_ care. Real fondness and real listening. Not just someone who nods and pretends to understand. I was there, Mycroft, I had fucking no one to stand by me when I went through this and it was one of the worst aspects of it all."

"He's not like you."

A few minutes ago, Mycroft's expression had seemed to be dangerous and John wondered if after these words he'd have to worry about a squad team removing him from the flat within the next minutes.

But now the older Holmes' expression had changed, much to John's surprise. And not only his expression, his tone and body language, too.

"Mycroft, he needs you and me, people he trusts, no strangers," he continued, "We need to work _together_ to help him. Don't toddle off, don't hand him to some psychiatrists."

"Obviously, he doesn't want my help."

"He doesn't want your teasing. And he neither knows how to ask for help nor how to accept it. I know you care, now is the time to show it. Care doesn't mean to do what you think he _should_ need, but what he _actually_ needs."

Mycroft closed his eyes, pressing his lips in a flat line, it reminded John of the moment when he had confronted the older Holmes about using Sherlock as a bait for Moriarty shortly before the fall. That awkward conversation they had in the Diogenes, where John had learned what was really going on.

Mycroft was distressed, though only few people were probably able to actually realise it.

After what felt like minutes - but could only have been a few moments - Mycroft straightened his posture and winced.

"Point made. How do we proceed?"

The determination in which Mycroft said it and the grief in his voice convinced John to abandon to try to get rid off him.

"Good. My pace, my decisions."

"Very well. He trusts you, and so should I have done."

Was Mycroft trying to say sorry?

He was as talented as his brother.

John listened to the sounds from the bathroom and realised the rushing of the shower had become rather monotone; which meant Sherlock was no longer moving around.

Since the connecting door was locked John headed for the hall, Mycroft on his heels.

While walking he slipped the stained jumper over his head and let it fall to the floor.

"Get off everything that has blood on it," he addressed the British government.

After he had knocked twice and hadn't received an answer, John carefully opened the bathroom's other door, it wasn't locked.

It was quite dark inside, the only light was coming in from Sherlock's room.

John gulped when his eyes had adjusted and he saw his flatmate.

Sherlock was sitting reclined in the bath tub, fully dressed and limp. The shower was raining down on him, but Sherlock's hadn't bothered to close the curtain and water was pooling on the tiles. Sherlock's head was lowered down and lolled sideways, against the tub's rim, his eyes were closed.

John stepped closer, "Hey, I'm coming in."

No reaction.

"Sherlock?"

"What happened?" Mary said form outside in a low voice, but he ignored her.

"Sherlock?" he tried again.

When the detective didn't react John touched his hand, it was cold as ice.

John sucked in air in surprise, when he felt the water that rained down was cold, too.

Hastily, he turned off the shower, then he patted Sherlock's hand, no reaction.

The doctor reminded himself to be careful not to provoke anything.

Sherlock's breathing was ragged but not alarmingly fast.

"Did he pass out? Is he dreaming?" Mycroft asked in a low voice, kneeling down at the end of the tub, he had left his jacket and waistcoat outside.

"Calm down, he's not dreaming," Mary addressed the older Holmes, but she stayed in the door.

"How do you know?"

"Because I have kind of a reliable source for comparison," Mary hinted at John's nightmares.

"This is more 'spaced out', nightmares involve usually more movement than this, like twitching. This is more like a horrified spectator, which lets me assume…"

"Shut up, everyone," John whispered, mortified that she had seen the state often enough to distinguish between them. "Not even Sherlock falls asleep in the shower with the water running. Get me a small towel."

"Sherlock?… I'm gonna touch you," he warned before he gently took hold of Sherlock's neck and lifted his head. He formed a pillow, then let his head leaned back into it.

With one hand he gently moved away the wet hair from Sherlock's slack face, with the other felt for his pulse on his neck.

"Sherlock, you're safe and home… and you are having a shower. Wake up!"

Mary winked at John to get his attention, when John nodded she spoke in a low voice.

"Tab his collarbone and speak to him. Works with you."

John gently tipped Sherlock's clavicle.

"Bit harder, he needs to feel it," Mary explained, "When he resurfaces I'll leave. No need he's embarrassed for me having seen it. Touch him, it'll help. Sweet tea?"

John nodded, then obeyed her suggestion and tapped harder.

"Hey Sherlock, come on."

His friend made a low choked noise and Mary vanished.

"Sherlock! You're having a flashback. What you're experiencing is in the past. Come back to me! We're home at Baker Street."

John shifted a bit, he was now down on one knee, leaning close to the other man.

A soft whimpering escaped Sherlock's lips, though if it was a word, John didn't understand. Then it happened a second time and the doctor was able to make out a word, he felt his jaw clench when something in his chest started to ache.

"Jjohh…"

Sherlock was calling for _him._ The sound was heart wrenching and the vulnerability Sherlock was displaying shocked him.

He wasn't sure what to do and did the only thing he could think of for the moment, he reached for Sherlock's hand and held it.

"I'm here, Sherlock. Look at me,!"

This time the other man's head moved a bit in his direction and John placed his other hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"That's it, all the way," he cooed, while he continued to tab his hand, more gently now.

The door opened briefly and Mary put down the standard lamp from the sofa next to the door, then switched it on. Finally they were able to see a bit better, it was a soft and dim light, she vanished again.

"What can I do?" Mycroft asked.

"Be present, just be here. You can talk to him, speaking is an anchor. But don't push. Just wait. If he seems half aware, you can try to address him. Make sure he doesn't slip back into the memory. If you want to distract him, tell him about something nice."

When Sherlock flinched and started to tremble, John moved his thumb over his brow.

"Come on, open your eyes," then John addressed Mycroft, "Plug the tub and let in warm water. Might as well use the warmth to make him comfortable," he also feared Sherlock might slip into shock.

Mycroft immediately followed his orders.

Then suddenly - when the water started to flow - Sherlock grunted and moved his hands up, as if to protect his face, John caught the hands in his.

"Open your eyes, you're in the shower!" he ordered in a firm voice.

Sherlock started to blink but there was no understanding in his distant gaze.

"Sherlock, you're at home, do listen to John," Mycroft addressed his brother for the first time.

"Joh'… you nee'to take care o' Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled and John's eyes widened, he had expected Sherlock to be angry or make a nasty comment towards his brother.

Another odd thing was that Sherlock was not addressing John directly, he reached out to the other side of the tub, turning away.

"It's okay, Sherlock."

"No, he… he's bleedin'… John?" Sherlock clearly tried to reach for the wall on the other side.

"What?" John turned to Mycroft, "What's he talking about?"

The older Holmes hesitated.

"Mycroft!" John hissed, "At least tell him you're fine."

Mycroft knelt down beside John and took one of Sherlock's hands, forcing him gently to look into their direction again.

"Can you hear me? I'm fine. It was only a scratch. I know it bled, but it looked far worse than it was. But that was in the past… You're save… at home in Baker Street. Look at me."

Sherlock's still stared into nothingness, he was not really back with them, but he seemed to have relaxed a bit, the water and the familiar touches did in fact had a positive effect.

"Are you injured?" John couldn't help but ask and looked at the older Holmes.

"No concern of yours, especially not right now, take care of my brother."

"Jesus, is there anyone in your family that isn't stupidly stubborn when it comes to the own health?"

"Our mother," Mycroft volunteered.

"Mother… Is there something she or you did in your youth that did him good? A certain touch or something?"

John gently shoved the wet hair out of Sherlock's face, then again letting his hand rest on top of his head for a moment. This had a calming effect on his fried a few days before.

"Sherlock, can you get out of you head and join us for a change?" he said, just to speak.

"Use the shampoo," Mycroft addressed.

"What?" John didn't know what it meant.

Mycroft hesitated, as if not sure if this detail was good to share, "As a toddler the only thing he liked about bathing was our mother washing his hair, at least I deduced he did because it was when he stopped struggling and calmed down. But I think he only hated bathing because he knew he was supposed to go to bed afterwards, not the thing itself."

John raised his eyebrows, not sure if this wasn't too intimate; on the other hand there was some residual blood there that needed to get out, anyway.

.

Tapping on his collarbone, it was shaking his core.

"Sherlock?" John's welcome voice.

A taste of anguish on the tip of his tongue, made his breath burn in his lungs with bitterness. He felt awful.

"Can you get out of you head and join us for a change?"

Right, he was at 221b, no longer hunting people and being hunted by them in return.

What had just happened?

A warm calming hand on his head, the touch felt good, better than anything in the past years, so safe, it was almost like a dream. Probably this wasn't reality, too good to be true. Was he imagining things?

He was surrounded by safe and warmth, but something, that reminded him of utter desperation and panic, was still looming in a dark corner. Must be reality then.

Then it came back: Blood, it had been all over him.

He jerked and anxiously breathed through his nose, checking for the smell of fresh blood.

None.

Only the smell of the shower, the detergent Mrs Hudson used, he was wearing clothes, which were currently clinging to him, and he smelled John's shampoo.

A massaging kind of touch on his hair, slick and gentle, followed by soft warm rain falling onto his head.

Right, the shower.

It was hard work to open his leaden eyelids, fir green pressure tried to prevent him from doing so.

"John?"

The orange light that hit him was quite a shock. And… what was Mycroft doing in his bathroom?

He couldn't see properly, everything was blurred and… out of sync.

"Hey…" John moved into his line of sight, "You spaced out. Are you with me now?"

He tried to nod, but his body was not cooperating.

"Where have you been?" Mycroft was indeed there, he could hear him.

"Don't remind him just now," John warned his brother.

Right, he had been in Serbia. But as soon as he remembered he tried to shove it away, he didn't want to remember.

He tried to turn away from the presence and the memory, not knowing what it was, just sensing something bad was creeping up on him, he tried to curl into a ball.

"No! Don't you dare to go back there," John gently gripped his right upper arm and a warm hand stayed on his shoulder.

"Stay with me," it was an order. Sherlock smiled inwardly. How much had he missed these… It was good to hear some.

He'd never though it even possible to be so vulnerable in front of anybody, but now he was, in front of John, maybe even Mycroft if this was real, but he didn't care. John hadn't left, had witnessed so much disgusting weakness in the past weeks and was still here. Accepting and maybe even liking him without question, unconditional love in a platonic way.

It frightened him. It was just more than he deserved and could handle.

Then it overwhelmed him, he couldn't grasp the concept.

His mind was so strained, all it wanted was to shut down.

"Hey..." John's voice was soft and… distant.

Headache.

"How do you feel?"

Ugly, it felt ugly… he wanted to not-feel.

"Mycr'ft?" he managed, suddenly the memory of stumbling through a forest in the dark - with his brother - came back He now remembered the smell of Mycroft and of blood must have been what triggered the episode.

Before, in his room, Mycroft had confronted him with the smell of blood, and up to a certain point he had just been able to catalogue, store his body's reactions and his mind's panic and progress into stress. It had been horrifyingly interesting, at least to a certain point, when he hadn't been able to control it any longer.

Suddenly, his breathing once more became more difficult. He remembered where he had been then, the memory threatened to drawn him back into the maelstrom.

"Sherlock, are you with me?" John asked, sounding confused.

Of course he was.

No, he _wanted_ to be, but the forest was gathering, becoming more dominant, creeping up on him. It wasn't a forest - details formed, protruding out of the dark - it was the terrain surrounding Baron Maupertuis' stronghold.

Life was just so surreal. He wondered what reality was real.

A hand touched his brow and water moved, caused sounds, the intensity of what must be real life made him gasp.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Mycroft's voice.

Good, his brother sounded okay so far.

It was just overwhelming, the small boundary between life and death. Between being in a life threatening situation and being safe. They had both been almost killed during their ordeal in Serbia.

The concept of life felt just so unreal right now.

He had felt like this before, detached.

A sudden jolt of fear made him suck in air when he remembered what had happened during their escape in more detail.

Mycroft had been hit by one of the guards, to their luck he was very close and they had neutralised the shooter before he could raise an alarm. Hand to hand.

He didn't want to be in that particular forest.

John's warm hand felt so very soothing. He forced his eyes open and stared at John, who was right next to him, so very close. He could just touch him if he wanted to. But he was afraid, he had tried this during his time in the plant, but had just touched nothingness, just air.

Was John really there, or was this just another fever dream?

Would he ever find his way back into what he had thought was life?

Life as it had been?

As it should be?

Reality had changed into something unpredictable, something odd... nothing felt truly real any longer, at least not while episodes like this where happening. He remembered now, he had tried to minutely catalogue his reactions and the events that followed the confrontation with the smell of blood. But instead of his intention to analyse and store information he had been helplessly dragged into it, again.

It was just… hell. He didn't believe the concept of hell existed, but now he wasn't sure any longer.

Where was the use in trying to keep track?

People where dying, why was he suffering life?

The homeless man had passed the state of being alive, why was _he _still here?

He needed to safe John… and Mycroft was now wounded, too.

"Hey, come on, look at me."

John was there, intact and beautifully naïve.

Or wasn't he?

Was this the decision John had made when he had prayed 'dear god, let me live?'

How had he had the courage to go on with this madness called life?

Mycroft was gasping under his hands, on the cold undergrowth of the forest… he was trembling, although Mycroft had given him his coat.

The wet mossy smell enclosed him.

Then he felt euphoric relief when his brother stumbled to his feet, pain in his features but alive and walking. They supported each other and went ahead.

Both their hands were covered in blood and they both were in pain.

"Sherlock, I know you are quite bad right now, and I want you to get some relief, gather some strength…" John's voice echoed through the dark.

It was good, the speech anchored him, though he couldn't make out the meaning of the words.

Please, continue to speak if convenient.

Something cold and hard was pressed against his lips and then a cold liquid touched his tongue, the bitter taste reminded him of something not-good and he struggled to sit up and shoved the hand with the cup away; spit out what ever it was.

The good thing was the unwelcome action provided another brace to reality. The taste was nasty and the hands on him that tried to keep him from moving were firm and steady.

The odd tucking sensations the water provided on his shirt and trousers were also stealing their way into the forefront of his perception. Awareness of his body came back with an intense dark blue rush.

Not good.

Too much input. He felt suddenly every pore of his tired and aching transport.

Pain rose.

He wanted his socks off, his damaged toes hurt, as did his back. The waistband was pressing into his guts uncomfortably.

When he sat up again the hands came back, but after a moment of hesitation helped him to get rid off the socks and then someone opened his shirt and the belt.

He was leaned back against something soft… a wet towel.

Something cold on his chest.

A stethoscope, John was examining him.

A BP cuff on his arm.

He managed to open his eyes again.

"John…"

Was this the mind palace version or the real John?

The doctor looked down at him, eyes full of worry.

"I'm here, Sherlock."

He finally managed a tired smile.

When he tried to speak his voice was gone, he cleared his throat.

"Don't stop."

"What?" John's face showed irritation or amusement or disbelief.

"Just found out… physical sensation… grounds me."

"Oh, good, it was meant to be."

Several moments later someone lifted his limp hand out of the water and placed a soft bath sponge into it.

He opened his eyes once more.

"Come on, get out off your head. Concentrate on your surroundings. It'll help. Wash a bit."

Hadn't Mycroft been here a moment before? Where was he?

"Mycroft?" he asked John.

"Getting some dry trousers and needing a minute I guess."

"I had a… flashback."

"Looks like it."

"How do I know for sure?"

"Sherlock, don't. You just managed to get back here, I don't think it's wise to reconnect to the memories just yet, you know it could start another episode."

"I need to figure this out… was nasty. Need to store it somewhere safe."

"All right… But be careful."

"Describe it?"

Instead the doctor asked, "Was it intense? Were you aware of your real surroundings?"

"Yes. No. Only in the beginning. I needed to wash _it_ off."

"What exactly?"

"The smell. I…," he panted with an open mouth, the terror of the past minutes suddenly resurfacing, his body reacting to the mere idea of the smell of blood. Pain became more prominent, especially from his back.

"See, that's what I meant, don't go there! It's a fucking awful idea. You'll trigger it again!" John gently scolded, "Stay with me."

Sherlock swallowed and accepted the bottle of shampoo John handed him, then started to over accurately focus on washing his hair a second time.

He felt shaky and unsteady when he tried to sit up, John held him down.

"Wait, let us help."

A few moments later Mycroft was lifting him on one side and John on the other.

Sherlock squinted his eyes shut when nausea hit him, black spots appeared in his sight.

"It's okay. We've got you."

The grip around his elbows and on upper arms tightened.

Within moments he was wrapped in a towel and held upright, his legs not able to carry his weight.

His mind must have skipped the disgusting procedure of getting peeled out of the wet clothes and into some pyjamas, because the next thing he knew was he was moved up and forward.

"Let's get him to bed."

"No," he protested hoarsely.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You need some rest."

"Sofa," he insisted.

They wrapped more blankets around him.

The touches were not as awful as expected. These were not the sterile impersonal touches that were inflicted in a hospital, these were careful tender touches. For the first time in his life he registered the difference between those touches, between being vulnerable and being taken care off.

He was tired, which manifested in a grey fog-like pressure around his head, it gained overwhelming intensity.

Since he had resurfaced in the tub droning language had surrounded him, John, Mycroft and Mary, but he had a hard time following it, being able to conceive the meaning. Understanding was switched on and off, it was quite annoying.

He felt trapped in a semi permeable bubble that had it's own will.

Still disconnected.

When they moved towards the sofa he was trembling with exhaustion and cold, his mind was once more forcing his transport to surrender into submission.

Before they reached the seat the world suddenly dropped away without a warning.

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_Please review._


	41. Chapter 41

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

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**Chapter 41**

When John felt Sherlock becoming very heavy suddenly, he tightened his grip. Mycroft supported his brother on the other side without problems, though gave a grunt of surprise. Together it wasn't too hard to keep him upright. The older Holmes, who was a few centimetres higher than Sherlock, had the advantage of a better angle than John.

"Okay, lets make him lie down."

"Right. He'll probably sleep through an earthquake right now. His body does that sometimes, switch him off. I don't think he'll prevail any time soon," Mycroft stated.

He grimaced when he carefully lifted Sherlock's arm over his shoulders to better support his limp figure for the few remaining steps towards the sofa.

They carefully lowered him down.

Before, when they had peeled Sherlock out of his wet clothes it became clear to John that Mycroft didn't do this for the first time. In fact he knew exactly where to hold, push and support to do things properly. Moving a completely passive and slack person was a difficult task, and most people, who's work didn't include this type of thing, were quite surprised when they were first confronted with it.

In John's opinion the older Holmes had a normal healthy figure for a man his age, he couldn't understand Sherlock's constant bickering about his physique, and now he found out the man was also stronger than he looked.

Sherlock seemed to be asleep, his complexion was not too bad, his breathing slow and his pulse a bit fast, but overall okay.

While John went to get his bag to check Sherlock once more he passed Mary, who seemed to keep a very close eye on things, but hold herself back from interfering, probably because she was wise enough to let Mycroft be involved as much as possible to make him understand what she had weeks ago.

John smiled at her and briefly kissed her cheek, "I love you."

When John came returned he watched Mycroft literally tuck his little bother in, making sure that the blanket covered him completely and left no openings for cold air.

The rolled up sleeves and partly wet shirt and trousers looked foreign and misplaced on the British government, but it made John see the care and brotherly love, he knew was hidden in the stoic man.

Mycroft didn't recoil from this kind of things, to put in a bit of elbow grease was something he was ready to do, at least for Sherlock.

John partially unwrapped him again because he needed to check his BP, the older Holmes meanwhile took care of the fire.

"You guys look like you could use a drink," Mary said from the kitchen.

"Thank you, yes," Mycroft answered.

"There must be something in the kitchen drawer, but only use it if the seal isn't broken…"

"I know, John."

A few moments later she handed Mycroft a brandy glass.

John said nothing while making sure his friend was really okay.

He was still angry at Mycroft, not only for the provocation of a flashback, but for the whole Moriarty thing, the fall and especially the fact that he hadn't taken better care of Sherlock during his 'vacation' as he called it, which irked John as well.

The doctor signalled that they should all go to the kitchen to talk there. They followed him and closed the glass doors.

"I can see your disapproval, John. And I'm afraid, you're probably right. I should have listened to you. There was just so little progress and I failed him already often enough, I wanted to do the right thing this time."

"By doing the same thing wrong, you always do wrong. By putting pressure on him or worsening the situation. Well done," John voiced his disappreciation.

When Mycroft looked at the ground, deep in thoughts for some long moments the doctor decided to poke a bit.

"What happened during your escape? What memory was he dragged into?"

"I was late, John, far too late. He had been in the hands of the enemy for quite some time when I finally arrived. He had deemed it unnecessary to keep me up to date, as I'm sure you have experienced this unfortunate trait before as well. As soon as I got notice about his incarceration I organised his extraction."

Mycroft was not eager to talk about it, John could see it in his posture.

"I was held back when I had to live up to my cover, which added to the delay. I risked a lot to get there as soon as possible. Then other factors delayed our escape."

"What the hell _happened_?"

"He was kind of out of it… I mean the beatings, sleep deprivation and dehydration were bad, he wasn't able to walk unaided at first. When I realised he couldn't move fast on his own I had to switch to plan B, to make sure the window of a clear path would be a lot wider, had to make sure we would have time, which caused further delay and resulted in more physical abuse. It was the only way. I'm not sure he really believed it was me for quite some time… He treated my like an hallucination. He also kind of panicked when I freed him of the chains. In fact, I briefly considered gagging him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

John huffed in surprise, though he knew there were situations in which things like those would save lives.

"But he calmed down and kept quiet when I told him to."

Mycroft took a sip of his drink.

"As soon as we left the cellar we headed for my carefully planned escape route, through the rather wild estate's greening. The path should have been clear, but one of the stupid guards was secretly calling his girlfriend and we ran right into him. He was so concentrated to whisper dirty secrets into his phone he didn't really see us. When we realised he was there we stopped, but it was too late, he had seen movement. Although he needed a rather long time to raise his silenced handgun I had not enough time to move us both out of the way. He didn't really see us, but he fired blind into the bushes. One bullet grazed my upper arm. I managed to neutralise our attacker, but it bled a lot and Sherlock was not really… his senses where not the most reliable source of information at that time."

"What does that mean?"

"When he realised I was hit his panic escalated, for a moment, though. He was fussing and very shaken by the prospect of seeing me bleeding or the fact that I might be badly wounded. I've never seen him panic about a little graze like that. It was the then that I started to realise something was wrong. I've never seen him like that. But I assumed it was because he was in such a bad state."

Mycroft took another sip from his glass.

"I'm afraid he was about to give up shortly before I arrived, and when I was there wasn't trusting me to really _be _there."

"He told me he imagined me being with him when he was really bad, he might as well have called a virtual version of you," John shared.

"Yes, of course, especially since I hadn't interfered immediately… I needed to observe, it was quite a complex task to get him out of there."

"You watched them _torture_ him!"

A few weeks ago, when John had met the older Holmes - shortly after he had learned about the torture - he had yelled at Mycroft for what he had done before the fall and the fact that he had watched his brother being tortured.*

Mycroft had been surprisingly rueful, uttered his regret about being unable to stop the ordeal, had apologised twice, and had endured John's shitstorm patiently.

"As is said before, I had to, yes. This memory will be one of the worst of my life. The regret and guilt I carry about that is heavy on me. If I could have prevented it, I would. But interfering too early would have gotten both of us killed. It was the only way."

"Damn, Mycroft!" the doctor cursed.

"Obviously, I was sure my presence would make it clear the situation was under control, the imminent escape making it easier to endure the torment a bit longer. I was wrong. He didn't feel safe due to my presence. It seems I failed to protect him."

"It might had made the perception of being helpless even bigger that you were just standing by. As far as I know the absence of control bring forward the occurrence of trauma."

John saw more than heard it in the words how devastated and shaken the older Holmes had been by the events, his posture spoke volumes and left no doubt Mycroft was honestly elaborating his inner mind.

John knew some aspects about the escape, he had read file, there had been hints that it all hadn't worked as smoothly as planned but why not documented. He had tried to ask Anthea about it, but she had been as close lipped as usual.

"Right. Feeling vulnerable, at someone's mercy and / or helpless is a strong factor in the development of psychological trauma," Mycroft stated.

"How do you know…?"

"I actually sought advice from one of the specialists I tried to recommend before. I needed to know exactly what my brother was facing and discussed his behaviour with one of our psychologists."

"At least you didn't read a book," John rolled his eyes.

"Pardon?"

Mary, who was busying herself with preparing dinner, gave an annoyed huff.

"Never mind. He eventually was sure you were not bleeding to death or in grave danger and you went on."

"He had problems to shake off the additional stress my wound caused him, I was very glad when we finally found the carefully hidden escape vehicle. After several detours we finally reached a small airfield, then flew to Bari. It was an excruciating exercise, we were both unwell and he seemed to be dragged or thrown into his Mind Palace on several occasions, not able to fight his way out."

John wondered if this was Mycroft's description of what was also known of 'thousand yard stare' or if Sherlock had really actively used the Mind Palace.

"All right, get off that shirt," John suddenly changed directions. He just needed a minute to process this… and get his lingering frustration out off the way.

Mycroft cared much about Sherlock, he knew that. That's how they had met and it was the main reason for them meeting nowadays. It even rose to ridiculous heights when the British government came over to play childhood games with his little brother, just to be present or having an eye on him.

The fact that Mycroft himself had infiltrated the compound to get his little brother out spoke volumes, John wasn't sure he could believe it when he first heard it. He had assumed Mycroft would send some special trained agents, but he went _himself_, did actual risky footwork.

As much as they were quarrelling and pricky in their communication on the surface, and as brusque as their contacts were, their odd care for each other was a mixture of sincere and rough, and sometimes even careful and tender, like right now. The doctor had no doubt it had been like that during their escape, too.

Sherlock trusted his brother, maybe not when it came to criminals or government topics, but on a more basic level of existence.

Even though Mycroft had - fully aware it would have this effect - caused an intense flashback an hour ago, and Sherlock had suffered through it's aftermath, the detective had not refused him when he resurfaced.

There was a level of Sherlock-being-seriously-hurt when Mycroft became tender and he was never denied by his younger sibling in those situations, although the forms this took were often strange for a 'normal' person. Although Sherlock had made some remarks over the time that showed scant respect for Mycroft in their childhood, it must have been present, otherwise Sherlock would not refer to it as often as he did. John assumed in their childhood Mycroft had been the one explaining the world, being the translator and guide, who knew how society and human interaction worked, and how to behave correctly. The doctor was also sure Sherlock's parents have tried to understand their son, but weren't as able as Mycroft was.

"What did you do when he had the episode at your house?" John asked while Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt.

"As I described to you before, he collapsed from the stress of watching of the surveillance footage.** When he regained consciousness a few moments later, he freaked out, delirious with physical and mental pain and fever. I tried to hold and soothe him at first, but he was too much out of it, so I tried to restrain him. He was more furious at me than ever before. It went out of control and I was afraid he might hurt himself or me, but due to my injury I couldn't manage, not even with Anthea's help. So she called for my doctor, who was already in the house. He tranquillised him."

"Did he attack you?"

"… Not really."

"What does that mean?"

"I will not elaborate… He was still angry days later when he finally was getting better, then it had become a constant low level spite, which once more spiked when I made him stay in the house to recover before seeing you. I am sorry for how all this worked out."

"You need to tell _him_, not me."

"I know."

Mycroft shoved the wet silk of his shirt down his arm. It bared a fresh red scar.

"There were times during his _vacation_ when I lost track of him," the older Holmes continued, "…even two full months without any messages, I was starting to give up hope that he was still alive. I must say that those months affected me… profoundly, and I do not wish to repeat such an experience."

It was a through-and-through that had damaged Mycroft's lateral head of triceps, without doubt a painful injury that he'd feel for months. He was as skilful as his brother hiding the pain. The wound was healing nicely and had no doubt received excellent care.

"Before, when you confronted him with the smell, he held onto this arm and you couldn't support him, could you?"

"No."

John nodded at him to get dressed again.

"About one thing we need to be absolutely clear: You will _not_ do a stunt like that again!" John's tone was hard now, "You will _not_ deliberately provoke something, just to make a point! He needs support and protection from triggers right now."

"I was told EMDR is very effective in order to come to terms with those damaging memories."

"It is, and it is working very well with most PTSD patients."

Mycroft just nodded and when John took breath to inform him that now was not the right moment for this, he anticipated the words and said, "I know."

Mycroft then finished his drink and went for a second.

"The thing is, he's Sherlock, he doesn't do moderate, and he doesn't do healthy doses, whatever it is," the older Holmes continued, "As you are well aware, he has no normal way to vent things, there is only 'appearing normal' and 'breaking point' and the last time the latter came without warning, because he does not do 'in between'. All or nothing. He doesn't know how to relax and gather strength. And his cluelessness almost killed him once. He can switch his mind off with drugs, that's the danger, he states it's the only thing that gives him peace. He has no healthy self healing mechanisms every normal person has."

"I know. He needs someone who understands him. So, all you have to do right now is listen to his needs and be there… and respect the triggers. Help him get them out of the way for now. He has done important first steps and is on his way to find his own healing mechanisms," John hesitated, not sure how to talk about the drugs topic without telling Mycroft about Sherlock's minor relapse.

"One more thing about the _drugs_… We had a longer talk about that a few days ago and… I am quite sure it is not a problem at the moment."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"He never talks about the drugs."

"Well, he did with me and I think it was a good start. I trust him with this right now… I decide if he needs meds and I am the only one who administers medication, too."

"Really? Good," there was a hint of doubt in Mycroft's voice, though.

"You know about the plant and the homeless man?" John changed topics once more.

Mycroft frowned, which John interpreted as a 'not really'.

"Okay, we'll talk about that later. Why don't you get one of Sherlock's clean shirts while I check on him."

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When John stepped to the sofa he immediately realised Sherlock was breathing too fast for someone deep asleep, and his expression was tense. He was laying on his side now, facing into the room, his eyes closed tightly.

The doctor rested his flat hand on the side of Sherlock's head.

"You aren't sleeping any longer, are you?" he said in a low voice.

The head under his hand shook minutely.

"Did we wake you up?"

Another tiny shake. Sherlock didn't open his eyes, and John assumed he wanted their communication to stay private.

Sherlock had shown increasing trust in him during the past week. It had been an odd curve since his return.

When John stayed over the first days the trust seemed to ebb away, then there was a struggle to gather some, and now they both seemed to be re-establishing it. Sherlock had really given over control of several aspects of this, like right now, when he just relaxed under John's hand, didn't shove it away, just took it in.

It seemed he had also needed quite some time to come back to London mentally. It was probably similar to what John had experienced, when he came back from the war.

What Sherlock had been through had been kind of war.

The contrast between civil life and war was so enormous and overwhelming, the sudden absence of threats and violence so unreal, that most soldiers experienced difficulties adjusting. John remembered very well how this had felt and how long it took to find things normal that used to be normal once. Experiencing war changed people, and Sherlock was affected by his experiences.

John felt a light trembling under his hands, not the kind of panic but the kind of wrecked with tension.

"You need an _override, don't you?_" He referred to a conversation they had earlier and was sure the other man knew what he meant. It was the opposite of an override to ask him, John was aware.

As expected Sherlock didn't react, didn't refuse, didn't welcome the idea.

Sherlock needed rest, this latest episode had exhausted him, though not shaken him as bad as the two before.

As far as John understood his different behaviour this time was due to the fact that he had managed to observe the event unfold from some kind of a meta level. Of course it had devastated him, but he had learned important things, too. And he had also not tried to escape any one's presence, as soon as he became aware of it.

A minute later John gently helped Sherlock drink a few sips of water he had dozed thoroughly with a fast acting sleeping aid, it took Sherlock a lot of effort to lift his head to drink.

He stayed with Sherlock, sitting next to him and keeping a hand on his shoulder while waiting for him to fall asleep.

When he heard someone enter, he held up his hand without turning around, to signal either Mary or Mycroft to stop, stay away and stay silent.

They did, though he heard them speak softly in the kitchen and the clattering of cutlery.

It didn't take long until Sherlock's body surrendered and relaxed. When he sank deeper into the seat of the sofa, the enormous amount of tension poured out of him in a way so very visible it send horripilation over John's back.

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Later, when John and Mary were eating, Mycroft sat with them in the kitchen and listened to John's explanation of the events that had taken place in the abandoned plant.

John saw the carefully hidden signs of distress about what he heard, most of it was news to him.

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*Lessons in Friendship 8, Chapter 20

** Lessons in Friendship 8, Chapter 23

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_I'd love to get some feedback._


	42. Chapter 42

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._ _I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! _

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_This story had a very clear timeline from the beginning, I just thought it wasn't really important, so I only used the days for orientation. But at the end of this chapter I used it for fun._

_This chapter was very hard to write and I really struggled until I was finally daring to publish it now._

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**Chapter 42**

**Thursday morning**

When Sherlock woke up, the flat was quiet, his eyes went through the room and found John, sleeping in his armchair, curled up. It was an odd sight. He tried to remember if John had ever done that before.

A moment later the events of the past night came back, and he sat up with a horrified groan, shoving the blanket away and putting his feet on the ground.

The cold world wobbled.

Right, sleep aid, nasty stuff, but he had been embarrassingly glad to escape reality by sleep.

By now he should be able to just endure the smell, have learned how to manage that. He was trying for weeks, but it didn't work to his satisfaction.

A better plan was needed. Intensify practising and the exposure might be necessary.

On one hand, the fact that John and Mycroft had talked in his absence caused uneasiness,

on the other John had obviously kicked Mycroft's behind somehow, there was no other plausible explanation to why his brother's behaviour had changed so profoundly during the few minutes he had been alone in the bathroom.

The pure memory of yesterday's distress caused another wave of anguish rushing through his mind, dark blue and prickling, he tried to mentally trample it down.

At least, this time he had been able to analyse the incident, catalogue what happened in succession of what, registered the inrush of thoughts and sensations; it was a first, at least with this level of accuracy.

He perceived his hands were in his hair, pulling it.

Suddenly John sat up straight, he must have made some noise.

Sherlock froze, ashamed about last night… or _something_.

What made it bad was not really that _John_ had witnessed it, it was that Mycroft and Mary had.

He buried his face in his hands, to have more time to think.

"Hey," some fingers briefly on the side of his knee.

When he looked up, John was hunched down in front of him. Rings under his eyes, worried.

He didn't know what to say - which didn't happen often - he couldn't think, his mind was muddled from the medication.

"Mycroft and Mary left for work."

His friend didn't ask how he was feeling. He knew him so well, it was relaxing to be able to dwell on the nearness, the understanding without the need for spoken words. He had missed that.

It had been very intense when John had touched his head last night, it had caused…? Feelings?

A moment later the sparkling dark smell of earl grey entered his nostrils and he heard John return from the kitchen. Not their usual brand.

"Drink."

Gratefully, he accepted the cup.

"It won't work, you know," John said.

"Pardon?"

John sat down in front of him, what had happened to the rule about sitting on not-sitting-furniture? Maybe they were beyond rules now.

"Confronting yourself with triggers to get accustomed to them won't work."

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt mentally stripped.

"That's what you did, experimenting on yourself, creating your own version of exposure therapy, isn't it?"

There was no way of denying it, it was exactly what he had done.

"It won't work… It's good for things like anxiety and for people who use avoidance as a coping strategy - as far as I know - but those are not your problems, Sherlock. Therefore, it's not the right strategy."

"Oh, I assume a suggestion of what _is_ will follow?" Sherlock spit.

"Sorry, mate, didn't… Sorry. Can we talk about this without… I didn't mean to criticise. If you're honest with yourself, you know that it has done you no good. How long has this been going on?"

Sherlock felt his shoulders sag, John was right. But he had needed to fix this.

"Well, I guess, there's something we should do. I know this is hard, but for both our safety I ask you to help me make a list of things that are really distressing for you, or that have triggered something in the past weeks, because for now we need to avoid those."

"Are you suggesting that I behave like a coward?"

"Er, Sherlock! This is not about being fainthearted, it's about healing and being safe. I need to be aware what they are."

"Avoiding them is gutless."

"No! We're not having this conversation. What you did here the past weeks, confronting yourself with blood, was a bit stupid. I know a trigger when I see one. I have years of shipping around mine. We need to find ways to first work around them and later overwrite them. Don't get me wrong, I understand why you did it and why you expected it to work, and that there are some trauma therapists who think constant confrontation is a good idea. But the approach used today and by many good specialists is to respect those triggers and slowly remove them. 'How' is a different topic, but for the moment it is important to be aware of them and evade them, because you happen to be confronted with certain things in your line of work and I think you need your work to get better."

"I…"

"Just listen," John interrupted him.

Sherlock shut his mouth with a disapproving grunt.

"I'll only go to cases with you if I know what I'm dealing with. So that I'll be able to protect both of us from you having a panic attack while at Scotland Yard or a flashback while following a perpetrator. You understand why I think this is essential? I mean like in 'pure logic'?"

"Yes," Sherlock growled, he didn't like where this was going

"Good, then work with me here and help me make a list. I know this isn't easy, I really do, because I had to make such a list myself. Chances are high ugly memories will come up, but believe me, it'll be far worse if those come up at the wrong moment. I'm sure you don't want Sally to see you have a meltdown or something because you kicked yourself right into an episode after neglecting your body's warning signs. Which you are quite good at, I might add. You don't need to tell me in detail, you could write them down on a sheet of paper. "

"No need to unnerve me further, I already said I understood."

"Right," John sadly smiled at him, "Let's do this tonight, after dinner."

"I won't eat before talking about anything like…"

John spoke when he didn't continue, "That bad, uh?"

"Hand me some paper."

"You want to do this _now_?"

"Certain aspects of wetness and blood, mainly smells, and several physical sensations," Sherlock listed so fast John had trouble making out the words.

"Alright, then. As far as I know, trauma can… kind of accumulate… It doesn't necessarily need to be caused by one big event. It can be caused by an unconnected string of bad events, that share a common aspect. The initial event might be a really bad experience but not unmanageable, only moderately traumatic to the psyche. When something happens that then…"

"Understood."

A white sheet appeared in front of Sherlock a moment later, together with a pen and a blotting pad.

The whiteness hurt his eyes and he had no idea what he was supposed to write down for a moment.

"So, blood is definitely a trigger, probably a quite complex one, linked to several bad events. Start with 'blood' and don't concentrate on the memories, just list what you experienced as unsettling."

Sherlock knew what John was trying to do. This was kind of collecting the evidence, and he had to admit it was necessary, because he didn't know how to do it himself. John was right, it couldn't go on like this.

He wrote down 'blood', and for a moment he was glad it was just letters without meaning, but then, without him wanting to, the letters evolved into a meaning, his mind jumped to the first time blood had smelled bad: the pavement, Barts.

To anchor himself in reality, he drew a line, concentrated on the sensation of the pen moving over the paper, his movement… He over-neatly printed the word 'Barts' at it's end, then drew another one, with led to the word 'plant'.

John watched him and stared at the word 'Barts'.

Sherlock needed a moment to realise the look on his face was a question, though was sure John wouldn't ask, he had just told him to stay away from the actual memories, hadn't he?

"How you reacted… you were devastated," Sherlock explained, not looking up.

"Sherlock, you don't need to talk about it if you… if it… I mean I'll listen and I'd be honoured by the trust, but you don't need to, not for me."

"I heard you collapse, felt the commotion when the passers-by caught you. The smell of my blood was intense."

He remembered John's desperation.

Then the devastation.

He had not expected this, neither his own distress, nor John's.

With growing horror he had understood something was already going wrong with his brilliant plan, something serious, but he had shoved it away, until he had met John in the restaurant.

Blood and John collapsing from extreme distress had linked.

It still hurt, not only physically. Some blackness in his mind hurt, mixed with biting orange solid flames that cut into the darkness, like mental stab wounds, slashed into his mind.

This was miserable. He felt nauseous, again.

"Hey, you need to stay with me."

He swallowed.

"You told me about the homeless guy in the plant, and I also know about the smells of blood from the torture…"

Sherlock wrote down 'cellar'.

"…and Mycroft's wound."

He added 'Mike', to John's obvious surprise. Had he never used the short nickname in John's presence?

"Your brother is fine."

"I know."

"You seemed very concerned last night."

"Where do you get that idea? I wasn't _concerned… _His smell combined with the smell of blood, his after shave… I was remembering the moment after he was shot… I'm quite able to observe my own reactions."

"Don't change topics. You feared he was badly hurt, that _is_ called concern. He's not here, you can admit it."

Sherlock hesitated, but then nodded minutely with a grimace.

"The fact that he came _personally_ to get you speaks volumes, don't you think?"

"Although I wasn't happy about him watching me being beaten, most of it had happened before he arrived, and in hindsight, I agree, he made sure we could escape."

John was glad that there was no need to convince Sherlock of the good motives of his brother, because he doubted he'd be very convincing after last night.

"What else…?"

Sherlock didn't answer but wrote down: 'South India' and 'Offshore platform'

The doctor frowned but held back questions.

A moment later Sherlock added 'Golden Gate Park'.

"You were in San Francisco?"

Sherlock gave him a look that made him raise his hands.

He stared at the sheet for about half a minute, then handed it back to John.

"Okay," John was not surprised to learn about three more events where blood had played a roll.

"I want you to know that if you need to talk to somebody you can come to me. I can't do what a therapist can, but I can at least listen as a friend."

"I won't want to talk. I don't need to talk."

"I know, I just wanted you to know I'm here."

"I won't."

"Just store the damn information."

"Fine."

"Thank you for trusting me," John said.

Sherlock huffed, "I don't know how to trust. I don't know if I ever knew what the word meant."

"Yes, you do. You just did, and you trusted me last night."

"I'm not sure that was trust."

"I am."

"I never felt this before."

"I know. That was vulnerability and trust, Sherlock."

"There was never anybody there when I…"

"When you needed someone? Sherlock, you're feeling vulnerable right now, that's absolutely normal."

"I don't. There's no point in..."

"Yes, you do. It feels vaguely like wanting some kind of protection," John tried carefully.

"I do _not_ need protection, I hunted dangerous killers for two years, and lived, why would I need protection?"

"The one doesn't exclude the other. Besides, I'm not saying you _need_ it, what I'm trying to describe is a feeling like 'nothing is safe any more'. It is more like needing a safe place, needing to feel safe _somewhere_. A retreat, free of danger, one might also put it."

"What does that feel like, again?"

There they were, discussing the topic once more. John was actually surprised they revisited the term 'vulnerability' frequently. It seemed to be a major issue that Sherlock wasn't really able to connect to the description, or was it too superficial?

"Er, like being exposed, like knowing someone lurks in the dark, pretty much as you described having an intruder in the mind palace. Something unknown aiming at you from behind."

"Wouldn't 'afraid' be a more accurate description, more appropriate?"

"Afraid can be an aspect of it."

"I'm still not sure I know what that feels like, then."

"I'm telling you it is, what you feel. That's what it is called, you're feeling vulnerable for weeks now, I was just trying to explain it, now and before."

"The earlier explanations were more useful," Sherlock stated plainly.

.

John smiled at him, but then pressed his lips together when he didn't know how to help him. Some aspects of Sherlock were exposed and unshielded, and he wanted to make him feel safe and protected, but how? Overall, what really surprised John, was that Sherlock didn't react with loads of anger or aggression as so many people did after having experienced such a state of defencelessness.

Was this worse than anger? Or had this been going on far longer than John thought and he was already past the anger, had used it to survive before?

"Your descriptions of feelings are - though more precise than most people's - lacking all major aspects of how things actually feel," Sherlock elaborated.

"No, that's how _normal_ people feel like."

"They are wrong."

"No, they are _normal_, but let's not have this discussion - I know your sense feelings different. Normal people don't go into detail like this. They don't discuss or dissect or analyse stuff like you… we do… you make me do. They usually want to know the summary, kind off, know the dos and don'ts, but that's all."

John knew sooner or later he needed to ask for details of the triggers to successfully evade them, and needed to talk to Greg about it. The creation of a safety net was necessary.

"Oh," Sherlock looked a bit puzzled, "Maybe it's like exchanging mind palace rooms… and keeping them safe… in a good state, correct?"

"You lost me."

Sherlock made a noise of frustration.

And the doctor concluded he had answered to something from earlier in the conversation.

"Feeling protected."

"Kind of, yes," John finally got it.

"Okay."

"There's one thing that could help you erase the triggers, get you back to work, something very helpful and working rather fast."

Sherlock's features changed immediately, mental recoiling John assumed.

"I am fine."

"No, Sherlock. You're not okay."

"I will not see a psychiatrist!"

"You are definitely not fine, and you know it. We need to get a grip on the smell of blood triggering you. There's actually treatment for that, which is one of the most successful treatment in therapy at all. EMDR."

When Sherlock drew breath John held up his hand.

"Let me finish. It's something I can't do and we need to get help for, but this actually doesn't need long therapy sessions, well, usually it does, to get to know each other, establish a base for working the trauma thing out, stabilise the patient and so on, but the actual act of 'reprogramming' can be done in a few sessions. I just ask you to read into it, before you refuse."

"I won't…"

"Sherlock, I did this, it helped. You need to consider something this fast and successful!… I know this is actually something that is hard to do, to understand to need help… and maybe even worse, ask for it."

"I can't talk…"

"Yes, if you want, you can. I'll accompany you, if you want me to," John offered, but winced because he feared he was pushing too much too early. He sat down next to Sherlock.

"That's not…"

"You can do it."

"Not with anyone 'not-you'."

"Oh," John just made, lost for words for a long moment. "Well, thank you for that proof of trust… Mycroft might be able to find a therapist who agrees to do just the EMDR sessions without a whole year of therapy around it, if we ask him. Or I can ask Ella," John tried to soften the idea of the scenario. It was a fine line between speculation about the conditions that might make this work and being careful not to push the detective into dire refusal.

"NO! And not Ella!"

"Well, the thing is, she already has my background and knows what happened, in a general sense, I mean."

"No!"

"Calm down, I'm just trying to find out what circumstances you need to consider this. This is just hypothetical. Can you try to explain what is it that makes you so… opposed to the idea of seeing a therapist?"

"Make a deduction."

"I don't want to. I need to hear it from _you_, in your own words."

"I simply don't do that."

"That's not a reason, Sherlock."

"Fine, I'm a total imbecile when it comes to communicating feelings, it would be more of an issue to describe them than to deal with them on my own. I doubt any therapist would understand that. They'd probably insinuate that I wasn't willing to confront myself with sensing what I feel and that I try to undermine the therapy just because I can't describe the sentiment I suffer."

"Do you evade feeling what is there?"

"How would I know?"

John sighted, this was exactly the problem, and Sherlock had just said it. He could imagine what Ella would say about that, it wouldn't be far from what Sherlock had just suggested. Not an option.

"Someone told you in the past that you undermined the therapy?"

"I never had therapy."

"That wasn't the question."

"Yess… many people accuse me of manipulating things."

"Alright."

"I won't waste energy on a tasks like that. On being interpreted and analysed by the absence of certain behaviours I don't utilise because I consider them useless. It is especially stupid that some therapists assume that the decision to behave in a certain way is absolutely subconscious, where every person with a bit of a brain would be able to decide how he or she wants to behave, especially when it comes to body language. So the inability to distinguish between interpreting intentional behaviour and not intentional is where most of them lack, which is in my view the most basic skill in observing people," Sherlock once more spoke very fast and sounded unnerved.

The doctor sighed, he understood what Sherlock was trying to describe, though it was a bit abstract. In fact, the chance that the detective would be misunderstood was pretty high, John knew how few people actually could communicate successfully with Sherlock. He really understood the problem and was aware Sherlock was not necessarily trying to evade talking, but afraid to be treated in the wrong way due to being misinterpreted. Like experiencing dismissal because the other person perceived his behaviour as rude, or being called a freak for uttering what his more-than-average accurate senses told him. Or being refused because he didn't see the point in social niceties, gossip or small talk.

Sherlock had been misunderstood in the past when it came to physical health things, mental issues where so much harder.

But the fact that the detective was well aware that he was able to absolutely manipulate any observations a therapist could make, and therefore render them all useless, because he understood what and why and how they interpreted things and would be able to adjust his behaviour might in fact cause havoc.

Sherlock's knowledge about psychology was profound, although he lagged to connect to his own feelings, he was very well able to analyse others himself, probably even better than some therapists, due to his enormous perceptive faculty and tremendous perception.

He didn't need to know how jealousy felt in his body, he observed the symptoms and diagnosed it was jealousy via process of elimination. Just like John didn't need to know how measles felt to diagnose them, he just went to his mental checklist of symptoms. Sherlock probably even sensed feelings as deficiency of his transport, like others did with an aching throat.

The consultant was not the average person, and it wouldn't help to be 'read' like one.

John was also well aware that things that were totally normal for Sherlock might make a therapist think he was arrogant and attention-seeking, a liar, like he appeared to so many other people, those who didn't take the time to understand.

Misdiagnosis might be inevitable from Sherlock's POV due to his practical life experience. Was that what he was afraid off?

If he was, John could understand, he even shared the fear.

"You fear to be misunderstood," John stated.

Sherlock said nothing, but he looked miserable, even with his emotionless mask that his face was at the moment.

"Well, I'm not trying to make you see a therapist. For starters, I just want you to read into EMDR treatment, get some background, learn how it works and what it does and all the facts. All I'm asking is that you consider it. Just the thing itself."

John knew it would be hard to find a good therapist who would do the thing alone, without the sessions to make sure the patient was stable and ready to try EMDR, but he trusted Mycroft to make it happen.

"I already know."

"What?"

"I read a medical textbook about PTSD when you moved in."

"Shit, is everybody doing background reading on this?" John cursed.

Sherlock only frowned, not knowing Mary had done the same.

"Okay, that was some years ago and more general. Read about EMDR - in particular - again, with your new experiences, and then reconsider it. It could do a lot good for you with only a 'bit' effort. I'm not saying it's easy, but I think you need to get a grip on this blood thing. You can't work like that, you can't risk to be confronted with the smell and then get killed because you have a flashback or experience dissociation. I can't go through that again. Please."

Sherlock frowned.

"And this will not just vanish with time, believe me, almost everybody hopes it will, but it won't, often, it gets even worse."

"Understood."

"You'll read into it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, we'll see how to proceed later, then. For now, we need to prepare the flat, anyway."

"For what?"

"You happen to know what date it is?"

When Sherlock said nothing, John added.

"December 19th."

"No!"

Sherlock's indignation was almost comical.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_I will not discuss or describe EMDR or trauma therapy in this story since I am currently going through another round of it myself and it would do me no good to imagine/write about such scenarios. This story triggered me a lot from the start, since it became kind of my home-made coping strategy it was allowed to, and I was aware it would. I used loads of my own coping strategies that I developed in the past twenty years, before I learned I had PTSD (dissecting the swarm, never standing still (mind or body), overall about everything Sherlock or John use here to make the detective better in fact). I am __**not**__ saying those are healthy, so don't try this at home. _

_Nevertheless, what I actually wanted to say: if you want to read Sherlock undergoing EMDR and therapy, I warmly recommend Sevenpercent's story '_Magpie: One for Sorrow_'._


	43. Chapter 43

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

**.**

I managed to update this story (and the prequel) almost weekly for the past two years. I failed to do so in the past four weeks, I'm very sorry guys, I feel very bad about it.

I just couldn't manage to write, it was all too much.

Hope you enjoy the new chapter, thank you to everyone who is still with me.

…

* * *

…

**Chapter 43**

**Friday, December 27****th**** 2013**

During the following days Sherlock and John joined Lestrade at Scotland Yard for a series of interrogation sessions of Ian Alexander, it was the day after the Christmas holidays that finally brought a change to the situation.

Sherlock had watched the endless efforts to make the man talk and repeatedly tried to convince a desperate Lestrade to let him in once more. Alexander was rarely caring to answer, and if he did, he insulted and taunted the Scotland Yard staff.

It wasn't until John sensed something in Sherlock's attempts to convince the DI that was borderline desperation and which made the doctor realise that Sherlock must have found something.

John then spoke to Lestrade and that was when Greg finally gave in. But Sherlock had to promise that he'd hold his temper, whatever the man did.

The consultant went in with his usual aura of calm and know-it-all. He asked some questions that made Greg frown, they seemed to have nothing to do with the case.

"I know nothing of relationships with romantic attachments, neither those containing sexuality or love, therefore I need you to elaborate it to me. Have you ever indulged in such an activity?"

Alexander laughed.

"What is this? The seventeenth century? Are you making fun of me?"

"Sorry, I tried to be neutral, did you have a girlfriend, then?"

John laughed behind the one way glass window, Sherlock's tactic to cause confusion and bewilderment was as successful as ever.

"Who speaks like that? Oh, you're the crazy one, aren't you?"

"You knew before it was me and Dr Watson, when you met us in the stairway, you recognised him."

"I didn't know you were really as nuts as the stupid papers say."

"Believe me, I'm quite nuts… and heartless. So have you enjoyed the torment of domestic bliss in such a way?"

John rolled his eyes. He definitely needed to do an investigation of his own, finding out more about Sherlock's view of relationships, best before he married. Sherlock still seemed to be a bit clueless about it all, or was he just playing a role here?

Sherlock was talking non-stop, as it seemed, and finally, at one point, Alexander seemed to have enough to listen to him and decided to add to the conversation that seemed to be absolutely meaningless. By that point consultant detective had followed a conversation strategy that finally made Alexander believe that he was - in fact - a bit stupid and allowed Ian to believe he was superior.

To everyone's astonishment the man started to talk about the absolute nonsense topics Sherlock chose. Nevertheless after two hours of chatting some of the Scotland Yard staff became more and more impatient. Voices were raised against the approach of the 'freak'. Sally for once was not one of those who disagreed with the approach.

Lestrade silenced them, explaining that Sherlock was planning something and that he trusted him and that they better listen carefully and try to learn. He only allowed those in to listen that showed the necessary respect.

Another half hour later Sherlock suddenly stepped onto the chair, then on the desk in front of the suspect. With a swift movement he disabled the smoke alarm and stepped down again.

Alexander looked almost distressed by the irrational behaviour of the man.

The detective then took out his cigarettes and lit one.

"What are you doing? Planning to bribe me with cigarettes? I won't talk to you."

"This is more like the cigarette _after_… I wasn't planning on offering one to you, oh, but that's rude, isn't it? Since I was told to behave…"

He offered the box to Ian, who slapped it out of his hand.

"After what?"

"After you told me everything I needed to know. After a successful… interaction."

"I told you nothing!"

"Yes you did. For example that your original goal was to convince the ladies you kidnapped what a caring and lovely partner you are and that you wanted them to stay."

"What? You stupid arse know nothing!"

A tirade of insults followed and when John watched Sherlock through the window he realised that Sherlock shifted gear and was now collecting proves for the theories he had developed during the last hours. This was when the deducing really started, after Ian thought it was already over.

As soon as Alexander stopped yelling Sherlock inserted another little detail of a theory and the man was boiled so soft after days of silence and now this, he just reacted. Human nature once more working against the suspect, Sherlock using it as skilled and subtle as ever.

Another hour later, Sherlock had smoked the whole package and Ian was yelling for his lawyer, something he had not asked for before as if to underline his innocence.

Sherlock left him be, knowing well that this was the point where to stop, it was necessary to follow procedures.

John and Lestrade joined him outside. As soon as he had left the room, they went to Lestrade's office, several people watched them and followed, but stayed outside the open door.

"So, what did you find out?"

"Do I really have to?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, Sherlock, enlighten us," Lestrade said the same moment John ordered, "Take us through."

"This is a classic example of a person taking a former lover hostage because he's emotionally unable to let go. I assume there was a first victim we don't know about and it was a former girlfriend of the man."

Whispers started outside the room.

"Go on," John encouraged him, leaning against Greg's desk.

"The feeling of loss mutated into the irrational thought that it is possible to convince the victim to reconsider resuming their relationship. Therefore it is necessary that she listens, since she's not ready to do it, he forces her by rendering her unable to move."

"Wow," Lestrade made.

"The man is intelligent, he's well informed about the Stockholm syndrome, and he tried to use it for his purposes. The idea is old, it's even portrayed in Beauty and the beast, where a young girl falls in love with her captor."

"What?" Greg laughed in disbelief, "You have seen Beauty and the beast?"

"The first half hour, it was a horrible. I manipulated the video recorder to evade watching it further."

Now Greg really laughed, John couldn't hide his grin as well.

"Well, I assume Ian was being manipulated by the mummified man in his youth, clever as he is, he in hindsight - at least partially - understood what had happened. He learned how to manipulate people, did to others what had been done to himself. The idea to enforce his girlfriend to stay that way must have developed a few years ago. Either she escaped or he got rid of her. After more futile tries to form new relationships he tried it again this way."

"Why the male victims?"

"I assume he wondered if his lack of success was due to the fact that he wasn't addressing the right 'audience'. He might have wanted to figure out his sexual orientation, not entirely sure if he was straight."

Sherlock went over to Greg's coffee machine, poured himself a cup and added almost six teaspoons of sugar.

"He was expecting his victims to 'change over' to him. So he treated them well - at least in his eyes - for a period of time and then let the drug wear off. He expected them to love him by then, when they didn't and fought him, he killed them. Probably more as a punishment than to get rid of them."

Sherlock downed half the cup in one go.

"That's… insane," Greg frowned.

"Bit, yes."

"Any ideas how to prove it?"

"I'll make a list what to check for, your psychiatrist needs to analyse all videos of his interrogations again, especially my interview, to figure out the signs and proof it."

"Right."

Sherlock drank the rest of his coffee and then picked up his coat.

"Good day then," Sherlock slipped into it and headed out of the office.

"Er…," Lestrade made, perplexed about the sudden end of the conversation.

"I'll make sure the list contains details. See you," and John was out, too.

"Catch you later," Lestrade said after him.

Greg looked around the room and twenty astonished faces stared at him.

"Go to work, people, proof it!" he ordered and the large room was suddenly filled with movement.

.

In the cab on the way home, John addressed the success, but Sherlock was not ready to hear any praise.

"Don't be ridiculous, I know quite well I failed with this case. I found out nothing over extended periods of time, I added almost nothing to the investigation and I failed to observe. Everyone added tiny bits and we are lucky they added up and it turned out this way. This was the worst case-solving I ever did. Faulty, slow, blindsided, stupid. I have been working on an Anderson level, and I despise it. I am also not sure if my final deductions are worth anything. So please don't insult me by telling me I did good, when I know I did lousy work."

John's heart sank, this was a bitter summary.

"Well, you're a bit under the weather. No one can function perfectly all the time. You need to give yourself time to heal and respect that you're recovering. You've solved it, the girl lives," he tried to encourage his friend.

"Yess."

"How about we do some mind-palace-maintenance tonight?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

.

When John was preparing dinner later, the doorbell rang.

"God, why doesn't he just use the key?" Sherlock complained.

"It's Lestrade then?" Mary was setting the table.

"Obviously," Sherlock stood up from the sofa and adjusted his blue dressing gown, it looked very crumpled.

Moments later he and Lestrade entered the living room.

"Hello."

"Oh, Greg, hi," John greeted.

"That smells good," the DI said.

"You're welcome to eat with us," Mary invited him.

"What did you find out?" Sherlock ignored the social niceties.

"Thanks Mary, but I just ate a very late lunch… Well, an hour after you guys left Colonel Alexander came in. He was ready to make a statement, would you believe?"

"Oh, wow," John raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. He confessed that some time ago, he found out something was happening. He hadn't had contact to his son in years, but at some point realised his son has spoken the truth in his youth. He had a bad conscience about not listening to him and tried to reconnect to Ian. But although he offered help Ian was unapproachable. The father tried multiple times, and one time he - accidentally - ran into his son's victim."

"Lucas White," John assumed from the doorway to the kitchen.

"Correct. He made a friend go in, save White and destroy all the evidence. Didn't do it himself, but helped by driving the car. His son never knew."

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered, he had reclined on the sofa again.

"Sherlock, eating, remember?" John said, carrying a large pan into the living room.

They all sat down and the conversation paused until everyone had a portion and Greg a beer.

"Go on," the consultant impatiently urged, not touching his food.

"Apparently, he tried to contact his son repeatedly, but he vanished, must then have moved to the mummified man's house or the bunker already."

"Who attacked the woman in the hospital, do you know yet?" Mary wanted to know.

"Ian paid someone to take her out, not ready to risk doing it himself. He didn't reveal the name, though. Either he is afraid or loyal, though I can't imagine he has any friends at all."

"Afraid," Sherlock stated.

"Why?"

"That man is not loyal to anyone, no matter what," Sherlock said.

"You're probably right."

.

Later that night Sherlock was again on the sofa, reading in one of the three books about PTSD and EMDR Mary had brought, she had almost kicked him into starting to read. They had decided against a mind palace session since it was quite late when Lestrade left.

When Mary was on her way to bed she passed Sherlock. But then she stopped, went back the three steps and placed a brief kiss on Sherlock's brow.

"Night," she hurried to get away, a mischievous grin on her face.

Sherlock jerked upright, eyes wide.

John almost fell out off his armchair with laughter.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Your wife just kissed me!"

"I saw that."

"What's so funny?"

"Your expression!"

"Why did she do that?"

"Think, Sherlock."

"Isn't that supposed to be rude, kissing someone else than you?"

"Not as long as she does it like _that_."

John giggled and heard Mary laugh on the stairs, too.

Sherlock obviously understood it was some kind of joke he failed to understand, but since their tone was neither teasing nor mean decided to just take it as gracious as he could, collect more data and lay back down.

It took a while though before he started to read again.

…

* * *

…

_A/N:_

_I assumed since Sherlock kissed Mary in the end of SoT (holding her head in both hands and on her forehead) something must have happened before to 'allow' him kissing her in such a parental way, this is my hypothesis on how it started. _

_Sorry again for the delay. Thank you for reading. Feedback appreciated._


	44. Chapter 44

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

**...**

* * *

**...**

**Chapter 44**

It took until late January for John to carefully help Sherlock to the understanding, that trying EMDR was a good idea, arguing that they had already done lots of things during their Mindpalace-sessions that would happen in therapy anyway and therefore could as well give it a try with the aid of a professional.

Unfortunately understanding it might be useful and actually deciding to do therapy were two completely different things.

So John spend days trying to figure out what Sherlock needed to accept a downgraded version of therapy.

It turned out one of the massive obstacles was the fact that Sherlock was sure there was no hope of therapy being beneficial if John wasn't there to moderate and translate, but he was not able to state the fact itself or ask his friend to come. Sherlock reacted with tantrums and spite to John's tries to figure this out once he had understood there was _something_ seriously blocking the therapy-negotiations.

Once the fact was out in the open it went a bit easier.

.

"It takes place at Baker Street," Sherlock stated suddenly, while they were at a crime scene and nobody else in hearing range.

John needed several moments to even guess what he might be referring to.

The 'therapy conversation' then stretched over days and Sherlock only made one remark in a day, which was completely out of context at that moment, not elaborating further.

Maybe this was what he needed. Talking about it directly seemed too difficult, if John started a conversation about the topic after a remark Sherlock made a step back, not broaching the subject for days, so the doctor started to just catalogue.

.

A few days later Sherlock broadcasted another term out of nowhere during a cab ride.

"You do the movements for the EMDR."

"All right," John answered.

Being the one who did the physical work, which consisted of providing the necessary movement the patient needed to focus on during the sessions was not such a great deal.*

.

"No pity talk or statements of compassionateness."

John knew many therapists did try to appear understanding and made such remarks to make the client feel better.

Instead of changing topics immediately, Sherlock elaborated.

"The idea to pay somebody for pretending mental fondness is pathetic."

John understood that, he never liked it either.

.

A few days later at breakfast.

"No talking about emotions and stuff."

John actually bit his lips to hold back his impulse to giggle, it was Sherlock being Sherlock and quite absurd considering the topic.

He didn't answer to that one but made a mental note to camouflage the thing as much as possible. His friend's line between talking about sensations and talking about feelings was very different to the ones of normal people anyway. Sherlock considered a lot of things being sensations everybody else would describe as feelings. John decided they could just address and then approach it all as sensations.

Several tantrums on Sherlock's side and two weeks later, Mycroft informed them he had finally found one therapist - with a high enough security clearance - who agreed to do it on Sherlock's long list of terms.

John had expected it to be difficult, but had trusted Mycroft to find someone. The older Holmes had narrowed down the choice himself, much to John's disapproval and he insisted on seeing the other ones' interviews, due to security reasons all conversations had been taped. He had to recognise Mycroft's decisions made sense.

Two obviously just agreed because of the money and seemed overall indifferent and jaded and the third wouldn't work well with Sherlock although she had the right motivation.

That decision made all it took was to make an appointment with the remaining Dr. Winkelbach.

Since Sherlock still had issues doing the first step he didn't make the call for days.

Finally John decided he needed a gentle kick in the right direction and took over.

A few days later he asked Sherlock for another mind palace session before he went to work and the other man agreed.

In the afternoon he informed Sherlock that they'd have a spectator for the session and if it was okay for the therapist to join them as long as he didn't speak.

Sherlock was not amused, but agreed, much to John's surprise. But the doctor later understood this was probably one of the occasions where Sherlock accepted his override, maybe even needed it.

The session went without incidents and the next day John asked Sherlock if he was allowed to give Winkelbach a bit more background, he didn't like the idea to talk behind his friend's back, Mycroft had done enough damage by that in the past.

So the first three sessions was the two of them going to the mind palace to do further work while the therapist was present and observing, the man neither interfered nor spoke.

Sherlock ignored him completely, not even greeting him, but he was a professional and not put off by that.

The next three sessions were slow and chewy, the therapist tried to make Sherlock _talk_, but it was little use.

In one of the debriefings Winkelbach and John had started to do in private the therapist wondered if Sherlock even understood how this was supposed to work and John agreed that it might be one of the obstacles that Sherlock knew to much of the theory and too little of how he was supposed to act, so they started to prepare the sessions together, leaving the task of choosing the topics and making the detective talk to the doctor, who used the knowledge about issues he had gained in the weeks prior.

After Winkelbach had fully accepted that Sherlock only accepted him as long as he instructed them what to do, things became kind of smoother. Sherlock still saw him as an intruder.

But John gently dragged Winkelbach into the conversations, addressing him, asking him things and they carefully managed to establish a normal conversation over time.

They spend most of the sessions using EMDR, sometimes the therapist encouraged them to work out strategies that would help Sherlock in case he was trigged or handle situations that were difficult for him. But overall Sherlock preferred to work on developing those in private.

Making the detective join a session when he wasn't in the right mood was no use, so one of five sessions was cancelled because Sherlock was refusing to participate.

John remembered that it had been difficult for him, too, to speak about issues when it was time for the appointment, instead of when he was in the right mood, the problem was showing or he was having a hard time. Sherlock of course just ventured to do as he pleased, when he found he wasn't ready, nothing took place, but everybody agreed he endeavoured overall.

Also John was glad they were finally doing it and hesitated to do anything that might change Sherlock's mind or push him too hard. He also made sure to handle things when they occurred, as he remembered vividly how nasty it was to be ready to talk after a night of bad dreams but the next appointment was three days away.

Also, it appeared that Sherlock was usually more up to talking about something directly than in hindsight, when he had time to think about it himself and lock it away with his own conclusions attached; which often were neither the healthy ones nor the ones bringing forth the matter in a emotionally resolving way. So they did spontaneous session that compensated the skipped ones.

John was relieved that the therapist was apparently a very competent man, and he soon trusted him more than he ever had trusted Ella. Winkelbach was more like a teacher, explained a lot and never beating around the bush; he was kind and easygoing, used little social phrases and was a strong firm presence in the room.

Sherlock of course was not amused about most of his ideas, but treated him with more respect than John had expected, probably because he explained so much, this was an aspect Ella had not bothered with often.

Sherlock's ability to stay relatively calm on the outside and observe what happened, e.g. during a flashback, helped enormously, though it left him utterly exhausted in the aftermath. Maybe these two factors were why the sessions were oddly different from how John had experienced therapy. Sherlock's treatment felt more open, less constricted, though the detective had real issues with being seen in weak moments by anyone else than John. Which made several sessions quiet short when Sherlock clammed up, couldn't relax and was so tense he almost passed out from the stress or the pain that followed a flashback or dissociation. He wouldn't allow Winkelbach anywhere near him then.

But overall Sherlock's respect grow slowly, especially when EMDR started to show the first signs of the expected result: blood causing less stress.

Although he never really talked to the therapist about his feelings or most intimate thoughts, he talked to _John_ about _some_ of the latter, usually one or two days after a session. He masked the topic skilfully, so it took John some time to understand what they were really talking about. It usually started with questions, some oddly childlike about how this or that felt for John, and some were about getting feedback in his usual 'not good?' style.

John knew his friend had issues connecting his own emotions to generally excepted verbalisations and had informed the therapist right in the beginning. They found a way to make Sherlock describe his _sensations_ then, as expected, it worked a bit better.

The doctor also knew he was an important part of the therapy, but he carefully tried to move a bit more to the background to elicit Sherlock, not playing the mediator all the time, but his opinion was repeatedly inquired by the detective and often asked John to 'translate' what the therapist wanted.

John learned a lot about his own behaviour, too. For example, he had already understood that he had brought Mary into the picture before Sherlock was ready and that his former flatmate had wanted his fiancé there for John's sake. She had been the only one who understood that it was too early, for all of them.

The past months had been rough, but maybe it had needed to go exactly as it had done, if the bumps hadn't been in the road, they might have stayed in that half cooked process of letting Sherlock repress his issues until it would have been to late.

Maybe it had been a necessary evil; Sherlock needed to hit bottom like this to be ready to accept help and both of them to understand the severity of the situation, even to trust each other again, and heal.

Sherlock was 'hardcore' with so many things, he just couldn't do it any other way. Often, he was lost because he couldn't figure things out the normal way, and he needed to be gently shoved into the right direction.

It was harder for him than for everyone else to turn things around and change his patterns. Which was kind of bad, but that aspect of his personality was on the other hand one that made him very successful in other things, especially in detective work and chemistry.

John was glad his friend had given up trying to hide things any longer. It was good his breakdown or surrender, whatever one might want to call it - had happened now, when John was around to catch him, or better help him catch himself. Good, that he had been there to soften the impact a bit and that it had brought back trust on both sides. It would get better from now.

They also did sessions in the mind palace on their own, especially with things Sherlock didn't want to share with anyone, or with boring things like cleaning up, extinguishing the last smouldering fires to which they finally had found a solution. They also meticulously stored and maintained the new strategies to cope with the traumatic memories.

Sherlock wrote several new programs with John's assistance, that were supposed to help him when things became too intense. The detective himself had suggested to create those instructions but the therapist didn't really knew what he needed or how to actually try to do it.

It worked, especially after Sherlock translated some of the 'programs' into visual mechanisms to free his working memory.

During one of those mind palaces sessions Sherlock made a hissing noise and then giggled.

"What was that?" John wanted to know.

"I built in a _mechanism_."

"It took you three hours to built it?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock had kept his silence for over three hours after he had told John that he was free to read a book while he was at work, he needed to do something John couldn't help with anyway.

"It is rather… comprehensive."

"What did you do?"

"I installed an hydraulic system throughout the palace that produces air currents when needed."

"What for?"

"To blow air into my face as soon as something unwelcome arises."

"Oh, to ground you, create sensory input?"

"Obviously. And to provide fresh air in case of difficult smells."

"To blow away bad scents, good idea."

John asked Sherlock to describe how it worked and it reminded John of the 'Strandbeest' mechanisms which he had researched online after learning Sherlock had models of them in his mind.

"Wrong comparison, right principle it actually looks and works like the pneumatic tube mail of New York City in the first half of the 20th century. Ask Wikipedia**."

"Since it's already there I'm just wondering if I might put it to use for other things as well," the detective mused.

"Like?"

"Propelling a boot on a stick that follows me around to get my behind kicked as soon as I fail to keep my mind from wandering into dissociation or panic."

There was a moment of silence after Sherlock delivered this in a sober and reflective tone.

This was when John finally lost it and started to howl with laughter. It was the first time they really laughed in a very long time, imagining the scene Sherlock obviously borrowed from some childhood comic and had added details to the fictional mechanism.

Only a week before this they had finally managed to connect the new level to the original old ones and had rebooted the palace, which enabled Sherlock to use it in the way he had done in the past. Therefore installing the system had taken quite some time.

The restored mind palace boosted the tortured man's recovery more than John had dared to hope for.

The time they spent in there also led to talking about Sherlock's time away, and despite the detective's denial, he was actually working through some issues by telling John about them, or better by minutely answering his questions during the palace sessions.

On other times, though, it was even unnerving how the detective analysed every tiny bit of the events, not able to let go. He talked and thought about small aspects for hours and John couldn't make him move on. Such things also used to come up again later, again and again and again.

This was surely productive for solving crimes, but slowed down Sherlock's recovery immensely, it also fuelled the depression.

Initially it was difficult for John to identify if Sherlock's thoughts were analysing a case or running down a depressive vortex for hours.

Sherlock _was_ reviewing those quite frequently but he didn't really understand the necessity to let them go - or he just couldn't.

At least the detective allowed him to interfere as well as aiding him with pushing unimportant thoughts away, but it tedious and not working well.

So they did their best to distract Sherlock, the same thing they had done from the beginning. Mycroft went to great lengths to help his little brother, and since _John _pushed his friend into accepting it, Sherlock's acceptance grew.

Greg came over more often than usual and they were all glad Sherlock accepted their efforts, though some of them only under protest or to please John, but that was good as long as it worked. Although the simple fact of the latter, to please John, was still a cause for great worry, Sherlock didn't do things to _please_ others… it was new and it was oddly eerie. When asked Sherlock stated he had to catch up with two missed years of occasional agreeing with John and that is was therefore only appearing he was doing this frequently. The blatant evasion of the topic made John roll his eyes.

They agreed on a codeword for situations where Sherlock felt the need to get out. But Sherlock refused to use it, still convinced enduring a situation would benefit him. Until he almost puked on a crime scene. He made it outside just in time.

"See, you now understand why we need a code. You almost contaminated the crime scene," John criticised the fail to prevent this, "You're lucky Donovan didn't see this."

"Well, that was embarrassing…" Sherlock agreed, shoving fallen leaves over the puddle.

He took the handkerchief John offered.

Only after this Sherlock started to use the codeword.

They had to excuse themselves three times during the four cases that followed. But the more the EMDR sessions showed effect, the less often the consultant needed to it, although there were situations that really stressed him.

Leaving John out of sight caused him trouble, too. The bonfire was still haunting both their nightmares and Sherlock seemed to sense danger in every dark corner, something that had probably saved his life repeatedly during his hunt, but was now quite hindering. He refused to try to bring down his attention on the matter though, augmenting the issue wasn't solved at all.

Over time Sherlock's deducing sped up once more, his crime work improved. His thinking slowly normalised when it came to analyse, plan, observe and solve crimes due to the fact that not most of his brain power was occupied by the traumatic events and keeping the memories at bay.

He was returning into his usual self, much to everyone's relief.

.

* * *

.

_* to understand this you should know that the therapist usually moves his finger from the left to the right an back while the client follows the finger with his eyes and 'works' on his issues, but it's not really important how or who or what creates the movement, the therapist guides the sessions, which is actually very important. Ask the internet how EMDR works for further details how the movements look like._

** Google 'pneumatic tube mail New York City' and read the Wikipedia-article, it's quite an interesting topic.

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_A/N:_

_Thank you for reading. _

_I love to get feedback._


	45. Chapter 45

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

**.**

* * *

**.**

**Chapter 45**

One afternoon in March Mycroft was at the flat when John came home, probably to see how his little brother was doing. John interrupted their bickering, which was obviously kept at a level of hidden fondness by the older Holmes.

"Mycroft, I'd like to ask you for a favour," John addressed the older Holmes after they had greeted each other.

Sherlock seemed alarmed.

"Yes?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Could you find a body for us in an Eastern Europe plant and arrange a proper burial?"

John kept his focus on Sherlock, who gulped and hastily turned his attention back to the newspaper that was in front of him on the dinner table.

"Oh?" Mycroft seemed to know little about the events in the manufactory building, "Care to update me on what happened there and why?"

When Sherlock didn't reply John tried to summarise what his friend had told him about the events* in a very superficial way, the _plant-memories_ as they called them, were still a main source for triggers and therefore a sensible topic.

When John finished, Mycroft nodded.

"Is it necessary to risk causing an international incident?"

"No," Sherlock and John stated simultaneously.

"I'll see what I can do, given that the body is still there, of course."

Sherlock said nothing else, but behaved oddly quiet after that.

He rarely spoke for the next two days.

When John thought his friend had enough time to think about it he addressed the topic.

"Er, in case it _is_ possible to recover a body, would you like to go to the funeral?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you can decide later. I didn't do this to cause strain, I thought you need this, closure, I mean," John tried to explain, a bit unsure if his friend was angry that he had requested this without speaking to him first.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said in an almost shy tone.

.

**Wednesday**

A month later Mycroft visited John in the surgery and informed him that the homeless man could not be found; the body had vanished, as had his scarce belongings. The plant had been cleaned up and there wasn't even blood residue or any other evidence of what had happened there.

Mycroft brought pictures of the scene and the surroundings John only knew from Sherlock's descriptions. It made his heart heavy, touched something sore in him to see the images.

He asked the older Holmes if he could keep them for a bit and after his shift was finished took his time to view them in detail before he went home.

He and Sherlock had worked in the mind palace on dissolving the dark masses of bad experiences. Recently more and more objects Sherlock had plucked out of the hives were connected to the events in the plant and Sherlock only hesitantly shared memories of the events.

John assumed that the centrepiece of each quivering mass must be a queen bee / main memory, and one of those major issues was definitely connected to the events that surrounded the homeless man's death.

One centrepiece they had already found, it was the torture and the dungeon, the man in charge behind the villain who had beaten Sherlock. Together they had hunted him down in the mind palace, which was kind of an epic session they would both remember for a long time. He was the ghost presence the detective had sensed in there, the one who had flooded one of the levels, burned down another and manipulated events and structures.

There were some other major topics that John assumed were in the core of the remaining three hives, at least they were sure now how many there were altogether. He could only guess what the other main topics were. One of this guesses was that it might be related with Sherlock having to kill in self-defence. John had tried to ask about that, but his friend had rejected categorically to even speak a single word about it, yet. Therefore the doctor suspected it might be the biggest queen bee of them all.

.

That evening they were alone in 221b and John asked Sherlock do to another mind palace session. Usually, he just suggested them and Sherlock agreed or declined, depending on his mood and readiness to go through difficult topics.

"I'd like to do… some remembering, you know like laying some things to rest. I think we should do that. It might help you to move on."

Sherlock hesitated, then started to deduce when John didn't elaborate immediately.

"I see. Mycroft called you and told you that the body of the homeless man who saved me was gone."

"Yeah, well… he did. The plant had been cleaned of all evidence when his undercover team arrived. Therefore there won't be a funeral."

John made a pause, to see how Sherlock reacted when he said nothing, he continued.

"I think we should… maybe remember that he saved your life and that he died. I hate that he did, but I'm so very lucky to have you back. I think we should kind of give him a service."

John was well aware that he was translating an element of his own therapy for Sherlock. He had been asked to imagine to lay certain things to rest, give them a resting place.

"No," Sherlock bluntly refused.

"Why not?"

Sherlock just shook his head.

"So you wouldn't have joint me if the body had been found and I wanted to go to his funeral?"

"That's different."

"No, it isn't. I'm aware this is difficult, but I think it will be worth it. Does that mean you would've joined me then?"

"Yes," Sherlock's voice was low and he looked away but he answered without hesitation.

"Sit down," John directed his friend to the sofa and sat down on the coffee table, opposite of him.

Internally, he rolled his eyes about himself, the bad habit of sitting on furniture which were not made to sit on seemed to have rubbed off on him.

He gently shoved Sherlock back, who lifted his legs on the sofa with a sigh.

"There you go. Close your eyes."

"You said the palace had no 'outside' right? No garden, no forest?"

"Correct."

"Okay. How about you create one?"

"Don't be absurd… What for?"

"I think we should do a service for that man who saved your life, as I said, therefore a burial place would be good. Preferable slightly away from the palace itself, so it is safe."

"Moriarty's cell is inside, too, and he _is_ actually dangerous."

"What are you trying to say? That we should bury him 'inside'?"

"There is a crypt."

"What?" John was surprised, "Who's there?"

Sherlock remained silent for a moment, then tentatively added, "Things from my past that were lost."

"Oh."

So the concept was not new to Sherlock, he had virtually buried things or people there before.

"Care to describe it?" John carefully probed.

"Underground hallway with deep large white alcoves on both sides, pale marble," Sherlock explained.

"Was there a real place that inspired how it looks, so that I can better imagine what it is like?" John wanted to know.

A few weeks ago Sherlock had told him that the physical appearance of many areas of the palace had been harvested by him from places that were significant or that he liked. The doctor was stunned to learn that there was a corridor that looked like the ones of the _Roland Kerr College_, where the cabbie had taken Sherlock, from the building John had been in when he shot the serial killer.**

"Obviously."

John finally got that his friend didn't want to elaborate or share the source.

"Sorry, didn't mean to be nosy… you don't have to tell me. This is your place and it's okay to keep this to yourself. Is there space for one more? Would it be the proper place to… do this?"

"I don't know. Maybe… I'll make another sepulchre."

This was evidently difficult for the detective, and John now wondered if he had been too hasty.

"Would you prefer to mourn somewhere else?" he asked, carefully.

Sherlock slowly exhaled and lifted his left forearm over his closed eyes. The doctor already knew this posture, it was kind of protective and signalled Sherlock felt exposed right now, he didn't want his face to be seen, needed a bit privacy.

John saw him bit his lip and waited.

After some time the detective did a deeper breath, then spoke.

"This place would be the right one, it _is_ meant for burials."

"Right. How do you proceed when you lay someone to rest there?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock seemed lost and his breathing shallow, his posture tense.

John realised the crypt must contain some serious mental wounds and sore spots from Sherlock's past.

"It's alright, it's gonna be okay. We won't do something you can't handle and we can leave if this becomes too much," John said what the therapist had repeatedly told Sherlock during difficult sessions.

Underlining the aspect of giving Sherlock a choice - in contrast to being at the mercy of someone or something - was an important aspect of trauma therapy. Since a main cause of the development of PTSD was the aspect of being vulnerable and having control taken away, it was crucial that Sherlock was reminded off this.

He had been stripped of control in several situations during his time away, but the most severe seemed to be the torture. The subjective regaining of control was essential and John tried to give him a choice about the psychological things whenever there was a chance.

The code words were one aspect of that ability to control, at least after Sherlock understood it was not a sign of weakness to actually use them.

"I don't even really remember what he looked like, it's all so hazy and…" Sherlock chocked.

"Hang on, slow down! Don't do this. Don't trigger yourself by jumping right into the memories."

"I… he kept me warm and made me drink and… he held me and…" Sherlock continued.

Shit! They had talked about the plant and what had happened there in one of the therapy sessions, but these details were new to John.

The doctor gently tapped on Sherlock's collar bone to ground him, and to show concern.

"You don't have to talk about this now if you don't want to. We're here to give him a proper burial service."

"He touched me and it was awful, I panicked, he smelled like…" Sherlock stopped, maybe John's words had needed time to sink in. "But _remembering_ a person is what is done during a service, those are the only memories I have."

"I understand, but stay in the present with me, don't go to the plant… Er, I could say something, kind of an eulogy. Do you want me to?"

"No," Sherlock breathed.

"What are you doing? What's happening? Is there something you want to do?"

"Nothing. Please, shut up."

John did. This had happened in other sessions before, Sherlock was struggling with something he could neither describe, nor explain or deal with and he needed time to sort it out, whatever it was.

The doctor just waited; it took almost ten minutes, in which he carefully monitored his friend's reactions and breathing. This stressed Sherlock more than he had expected, his breathing was heavy when he finally spoke.

"I… made… I created a coffin and laid him to rest in the last alcove on the left," Sherlock explained, he sounded exhausted and fragile.

John winced, this was not what he had had in mind.

"Jesus. Sorry mate, but it was _not_ supposed to be this… graphic. You should protect yourself from bad memories, not create new ones."

He should have explained better, Sherlock's hardcore ways often caused interruptions in the therapy sessions, too. Sometimes John wondered if the man had any self-protective mechanisms at all, especially when it was clear the sensible thing to do hadn't even been on Sherlock's list of possible options.

"What do you mean? Burying someone means burying. It's always horrible and always bad and always painful… It's what a funeral is, it's always graphic. There's no way for it to be not graphic, except when you don't go there," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, well, but I aimed more like in commemorating," John said, "You galloped ahead, did it the hard way."

"Problem? I did what laying someone to rest means," Sherlock's voice was stronger now.

"Right. Anyway, I'd like to participate and say some things, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't stop him this time, so John did.

He had thought about things he could say but never finished an actual eulogy and now said the things he had in mind.

He wanted to express his gratefulness and realised he couldn't without saying what it meant to him that Sherlock was back, so he said exactly that.

He explained why he loved Sherlock like a brother and how hard it had been that he had died and why he was so grateful that he had him back and that the man had saved his life.

It was a good opportunity to also make sure Sherlock understood his affection. John wanted him to know how much he meant to him.

Several times his voice almost broke, but he managed. He knew Sherlock was right, things like these always hurt, a lot.

When he finished, Sherlock's breathing was shallow, this was apparently very hard for him.

"Would you like to add something?" John asked gently.

Sherlock just shook his head.

"You put a stone on the grave?"

Sherlock silently nodded. That was when John realised he couldn't or wouldn't speak.

He had to guide his friend out of the crypt and make sure he didn't linger there in the wrong way, utilising yes or no questions.

Yes, it was supposed to be a place of remembrance but not supposed to be a trigger.

"Are you finished here, can we go back? I mean leave the palace?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment but then nodded once more.

John waited for Sherlock to resurface in an obvious way, but Sherlock just stayed immobile with his arm over his eyes, except for putting an effort in breathing slower and deeper.

John rested his hand on Sherlock's raised elbow for a moment, to show support and concern.

"Will you be okay?"

Sherlock nodded once more.

The doctor stood up, he decided he needed to do _something_… preferable prepare some dessert and give Sherlock some privacy.

He still didn't know how to comfort Sherlock in situations like this, neither did Sherlock. They had worked out some comforting things during the past weeks, but they all seemed not the right ones at this moment.

When John had decided against dessert and returned to the living room with two mugs of tea Sherlock had turned on the sofa and was now lying with his back to the room, curled into a foetal position.

John frowned with worry. His friend was miserable and he could do nothing.

He put the mug down on the coffee table so Sherlock would find it when he turned around, though he didn't look as if that might happen any time soon.

When John headed back to the kitchen to clean up the dishes he heard Sherlock mumble.

"Thank you."

John smiled sadly and said, "You're welcome."

This mental journey had been demanding but John hoped that in the long run it would be worth it, for the sake of Sherlock's peace of mind.

The detective didn't move for the rest of the evening and when John went to bed he rested his hand on Sherlock's top shoulder and wished him good night. Brief touches like this were actually one of the gestures of comfort Sherlock had officially allowed John to use during one of the sessions, to ground him or to just show his sympathy for Sherlock's distress.

"Wake me if you… need anything."

This time Sherlock didn't ask why he would need John, this time he said, "Thank you, John."

The doctor understood this was not only gratitude for accompanying him to the virtual funeral, but for everything John had done to help his friend since his return, for his assistance on the road of recovery and for his patience in general.

John tapped his shoulder to signal his understanding, then headed upstairs.

.

* * *

_._

_* This refers to one of Sherlock's earlier flashbacks, which happened in Chapter 15 to 17._

_**I based this on the fact that the corridors of the scenes of John storming to Sherlock's aid in ASiP and the Redbeard scene in HLV, and the staircases from both the case and the mind palace are the same ones, in my understanding of it this is the only explanation._

_._

_A/N:_

_I love to get feedback. Constructive criticism welcome._


	46. Chapter 46

**Define Vulnerability**

_Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made._

_._

_This took ages to write, I am a bit insecure about it, therefore this last chapter is extra long. I hope it was worth the wait._

.

* * *

_._

**Chapter 46**

**Wednesday one week later**

That night Sherlock had the first bad nightmare in weeks.

At least that was what John assumed was happening when he heard ominous noises from Sherlock's room. The detective had retreated into his room early, explaining he was tired. Since he looked really knackered John hadn't doubted it.

The consultant had become increasingly restless and tense during the past few days, even nervous and maybe a bit jittery. Overall he was also quite uncommunicative about it and John needed to pry every word out of him.

The doctor was sure a combination of the fact that therapy was hard work, a new case and the lack of sleep was the cause. Sherlock was stressed and getting food into him or convince him to try to sleep was far more difficult again lately.

His senses seemed to be even more hypersensitive than on the average day.

Last Sunday the detective had an argument with Mary about Tupperware. He stated he wouldn't eat foot that had been stored in plastic containers. John knew that his former flatmate preferred to use pottery or glass containers and cover them wish dishes or fitting covers. They had never spoken the reasons and had John never asked.

But during that discussion the doctor tried to remember if the occasions in which Sherlock had refused food coincided with those he had stored the food in plastic containers but it was too long ago and futile.

After Mary had understood that for Sherlock things tasted different in a bad way after being stored in plastic they agreed to use the glass bowls in the future. This underlined the problems Sherlock had with his painfully intense sensual input.

This night, before John headed to bed he had checked on his friend via the tablet he still used now and then to make sure Sherlock was okay.

A short time later, when the former soldier made his round - checking if all the doors were locked - he heard the other man moan and then something clattered to the ground.

All the things they discussed in therapy seemed to have rattled things loose Sherlock had carefully and deeply stored away, but they where now unleashed and roaming through his unconscious mind when he tried to sleep. At least the mind palace was no longer affected by them.

When John didn't get an answer after knocking, he entered the bedroom and saw the other man on his bed, the duvet half on the ground, kicked it off. Although Sherlock wasn't covered in anything he seemed to fight something. He was not only wearing his long-sleeved t-shirt, but also his pyjama bottoms inside out, and they were a dishevelled mess. His movements weren't carried out, it was more like jerks and brief tries to roll over.

Sherlock breathed through clenched teeth and every muscle in his body seemed to be tensed up.

"Sherlock? It's me. Wake up."

The last times the detective had been caught up in bad dreams he had been quite hard to wake, so John stepped closer, expecting he'd need to shake him awake.

But he hadn't even touched Sherlock when he - with a strangled, half chocked scream - leaped out of the bed and stormed into John's direction.

The doctor didn't expect it and therefore the attack caught him extremely unprepared.

Sherlock shoved him away with a force that knocked the breath out of John's lungs and he collided - right shoulder first - with the wall. His hip made hard contact with the doorknob, but luckily his head missed the large picture frame that held the periodic table by inches; he stumbled nevertheless, and his left hand was used to prevent his face from hitting the ground.

He gasped with surprise about the sheer force Sherlock had used. He hadn't seen that coming, Sherlock had never before reacted violently.

While he tried to get back to his feet as fast as possible, John was listening to determine where the other man was.

When he stumbled into the hall, he couldn't hear anything, but his own loud panting drowned out subtle noises.

"Sherlock?"

With every step he was painfully aware of his throbbing hip, his shoulder wasn't any better.

The detective couldn't have gone that far, he had just locked the doors.

When suddenly several things crushed to the ground in the living room it was clear where his friend was.

"Sherlock?"

This time John was prepared, when he rounded the glass sliding doors he was careful.

"You're at home, at Baker Street. The only one here besides you is me," he said, maybe he could bring Sherlock out of it this way.

In the dim orange light that came in from the streets he could see Sherlock hunched down in the gap between the padded chair that stood next to the front door and the large pile of magazines that had been there for ages. Several of them had toppled down and where now on the ground, as were some items that must have been on the table before. Sherlock's posture screamed 'ready to attack' but with a dangerous undertone of a cornered and severely wounded animal that saw now way out.

This must be more than a simple nightmare. The consultant was obviously not aware he was at home or that John was the one with him.

If Sherlock was reliving something or having a flashback, this could end with serious injuries on both sides, John decided to be very careful. His friend had never before reacted like this to a nightmare, had never physically lashed out, so this was concerningly different.

Slowly, he moved back to the light switch in the kitchen and switched it on. The living room was suddenly illuminated brightly and he blinked.

He heard Sherlock react with a whimper and hurried back to the living room. The other man's eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting harshly but hadn't moved.

"Sherlock? Can I come over there?"

When there was no reaction he stepped a bit closer.

"You are at home and safe, you had a nightmare. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Another step closer, he was now about three metres away and decided that was close enough. He hunched down, too, to appear less threatening.

"Sherlock, open your eyes, mate! Come on. Look at me, look at the room."

His friend moved and John flinched, ready to intervene or take cover. But Sherlock only moved up his hands to his face and pressed his palms into his eye sockets. He moaned in agony, obviously the bright light caused pain, but John needed him to be aware that he was at home and not in a cellar somewhere.

"Sherlock, open your eyes! You're safe," John continued the litany.

But Sherlock seemed to be trapped in his mind, seeing something bad. He now started to frantically shake his head.

The doctor then wondered if he could use Sherlock's mind's virtual speaker system to their advantage. Sherlock had said John was through-connected, that he could hear him everywhere when in his mind palace, why wasn't it working now?

Maybe he was too busy with being terrified or the memory was too intense.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

That finally brought a reaction. With a galvanic movement his friend's head moved up and his eyes opened wide but he didn't focus on anything, he just stared into space.

"You are at home, at Baker Street, in the living room."

John did the first thing he could think of, he knocked on the wooden floor with his knuckles, to underline the room was real.

"Come on, snap out of it."

Sherlock frantically shook his head, which John automatically accepted as a reaction.

"You can hear me, come back to Baker Street."

The detective once more squinted his eyes shut and the panic seemed to get even worse, he started minute rocking movements.

"I killed 'im… I… I killed him," he croaked and slightly turned away.

John stared at him in shock.

"Oi, what happened? Tell me!" John ordered, making another step towards his friend. Now he suddenly wondered if he was even aware of his presence.

"I killed him… I ended his life. I…"

Sherlock pressed one hand over his mouth, then sat down with a heavy thud and dragged his knees up; curled around them.

"Sherlock, open your eyes, mate. Come on, I need you here with me," John felt so helpless it made his chest tighten.

It was obvious Sherlock was lost deep in a situation where he had been forced to kill someone.

From his own bad experiences the former soldier knew that taking a life changed people and obviously it had hit Sherlock far worse than the detective had expected.

Sherlock's weapon was his mind, not his hands, with horror John wondered how often he had been in situations during his _hunt_ where the choice was to kill or be killed.

As a soldier he knew about this kind of situation. He had been trained for it, but facing it in reality was something else. It was far worse than everybody expected. Some soldiers broke from the guilt of it, others managed it somehow, but it left scars on every one who had faced such a dire situation.

Now John knew Sherlock's subconsciousness had just thrown them into the situation to face a queen bee. It was clearly visible on the detective's face, which was distorted in horror and agony.

"Go away! You are a fabrication of my imagination," the consulting detective whispered hoarsely.

At first John silently cursed, this meant Sherlock was definitely no longer in his nightmare, he was reliving a gruesome scene, which meant John needed to get him out of there as fast as he could. But then he realised that at least Sherlock was reacting to him, imagination or not, which relieved him enormously, it made several things much easier.

"You're somewhere in a memory and convinced that bloody memory is reality and that I am the illusion, aren't you?" John needed to make sure, keep the dialogue going.

Sherlock made a desperate sound, as if this idea was making the situation much worse, it probably was.

Carefully, he stepped a bit closer, Sherlock wouldn't hurt him, now that he was aware he was communicating with _John_ and looking at him.

"You are in Baker Street. You're not trapped somewhere, they will not come back. You made it out of there. You _ar_e safe, you just need come back to me," he kept the litany going.

But Sherlock ignored him and John wondered if asking about the situation Sherlock was experiencing would help or if denying it would be the better choice.

Since Sherlock had argued like this before during a flashback John had approached Winkelbach some time ago and they had tried to figure out things that might help with this kind of episode. They hadn't come up with any good ideas and therefore decided to talk about it with Sherlock, let him invent a procedure how to get out himself, something that just needed to get triggered and would then work on its own in Sherlock's head. The thing was: they hadn't had the chance yet to go through with it and now the problem was beating them to it.

Nevertheless John went through the different things in his mind again, that might help his friend to get out of the episode.

Smell?

A positive smell or taste has helped him to ground him when he had bad moments after coming back from Afghanistan. But, no, Sherlock could generate smell things inside the palace, therefore not an argument for being in the real world.

Touch?

He could touch things in there, but could he _be_ touched?

The palace had real life physics?

Not really, depend on Sherlock's wishes…

The codeword?

Maybe John should combine all three of them to kind of flood Sherlock with reality.

The doctor understood that seeing him was something that had happened to Sherlock when he was in life threatening situations and had desperately needed company.

This was the first time the mind palace was not a help but a hindrance.

Also, feeling foreign in reality and disconnected from the own self was a problem for many PTSD sufferers. He remembered vividly how he had felt separated from the world around him and how devastating it was.

"Hey, you need to trust me. Come on. Look at me."

Sherlock didn't.

"You had a nightmare, or a flashback, and now you're awake but you can't shake it, it's feels just more real because it is the scenario that holds more danger. So you jump into it because it seems to be the more pressing issue, but it is _not_ real, not any longer."

"I felt his last breath on my skin."

Sherlock retched but nothing came up.

"What did they do to you? How did you get there? Where are you?"

Maybe it would be good to gather some intel about Sherlock's predicament.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and pulled at his hair with a strength that made the doctor wince.

"I don't know."

John frowned. He had expected to be told again to shut up.

"This is important, concentrate! Who are they?"

"South American. Drug business."

"Did you sneak in?"

"No… I don't know. For god's sake, why can't I dim the lights?" Sherlock was loosing patience.

"Using the switch might help. You are _not_ in the palace, therefore you need to use the switch. This means _this_ is reality Sherlock! You are not incarcerated, you are at home," John tried to use this little fact he had learned about the palace.

"I woke up in here."

"Where is 'here'? Describe it."

"I don't know. Empty room, smells like oil and metal… ambushed me when I pretended to be a junkie who wanted to buy drugs… Why was I so stupid to think they'd buy my cover story."

"Did they knock you out? Does your head hurt?"

"They gave me something…"

"Shit! What did they give you?"

"I don't know, drugs… I can't think, must be the drugs."

"There are no drugs in your system, you are home, therefore you must have gotten out," John frowned.

"I feel drugged. I… He's dead," Sherlock chocked.

"It was self defence," John was sure of it.

"It's such a fine line… between life and death… I can't…"

"Hey, stop! Snap out of it. Don't get worked up about it right now, we'll take care of that later. You need to calm down."

"John, as nice as it is to have a chat with you, I need to think," Sherlock's voice was trembling.

"What do you need to believe me that you are reliving a memory?"

Sherlock's shallow panicked breaths and his agonised face were quite obvious indications of his stress.

"Maybe I should punch you… or get a bucket full of cold water," John mused aloud so ease the tension a bit.

Sherlock chuckled… or sobbed, the sound was not distinguishable.

"I really miss you and your pragmatic army approach, John," he breathed.

Sherlock's honesty made John's heart ache.

"Well you won't for long, because I _am_ here and I'm gonna kick your arse out of there soon."

John was thinking about calling the therapist for help, but before he had the chance to find a phone Sherlock banged his head against the wall, then pressed his palms into his eyes once more, desperately trying to control his panic.

"Calm down, just calm down, look at me, concentrate on my breathing. Stay with me."

John saw his friend go through several expressions of agony and panic until finally he just sat there with his eyes were squeezed shut, trying to control his breathing with his mouth open and his body rigid, ignoring the doctor.

"Sherlock?"

The detective closed his mouth, gulped several times, held his breath for a long time and leaned his head back against the wall.

"Talk to me."

Sherlock's face crumpled and now John almost panicked when it looked as if the detective might lose it any moment. But he didn't, he just breathed through his teeth and trembled. It was odd, when Sherlock had episodes like this before he had shaken them off, had tried to get out, had used his own abilities to calm himself, even if it was only to hide his distress, but this was different. Although Sherlock's mind was working his body wasn't following, he was dragged back into panic mode.

"He's dead. I felt his body dying in my hands."

"Sherlock, I'm gonna touch you."

John stood up.

"No," Sherlock screamed suddenly and John froze, "Don't come here,… please don't."

Sherlock scrambled away from him to the right, it was a very desperate sight.

He didn't go far though, panting, he leaned against the lower part of the shelf that covered the glass doors.

"You need to get out of there."

"People died protecting me, people died in front of me… but this…" Sherlock's voice faltered.

John felt his gut cramp when he remembered the other man had gone through all this alone. Had tried to handle this, the remorse and guilt of his first kill, all alone, probably wounded. Had carried this burden alone in the months after, mentally and physically in agony all the time.

"So let's deduce this, let's find out what is reality and what isn't. Use the same tactic you used when you suffered a panic attack in Baskerville. Use your marvellous mind and prove it works fine," John suggested. "First clue: touch your eyes, one should feel sore, you were punched by Ian Alexander," John started while he frantically tried to figure out what else might bring Sherlock out of this.

"I could have imagined that, imagining we were on a case, no prove therefore," Sherlock whispered, then frantically shook his head.

"I don't want to wake up from this dream," Sherlock admitted, sounding utterly exhausted and lost. "I don't want to return to the cellar, to the death and… I can't do this any more. I want to stay here."

"You _are_ here, Sherlock. We are home," John felt close to tears now, this was heartbreaking.

"I can't believe you."

"I know," John sighed.

He needed to anchor Sherlock in reality, the more he looked at his friend, to more odd this panic seemed, the way Sherlock argued reminded him more of Baskerville than of the recent bouts of panic he had experienced.

"Okay, let's go on deducing this, then. Check your surroundings and list what doesn't fit in with the memory of this flat from before _the Fall_. Look around and check what wasn't there when you left. You did that before when you had a panic attack in Baskerville, remember?" John repeated.

Dazed, the detective started to inspect his surroundings.

Meanwhile the doctor headed to the kitchen to fetch the grain pillow. He hurried to put it in the microwave.

"You're here?" Sherlock seemed shaken and vulnerable and a bit surprised when he returned to the detective's line of sight.

"If this was your mind palace, then put us at the space age level," John suggested.

"If you know it's there you must be my imagination."

"Right, point made. But I'm not an hallucination and I'm very sure that I'm real. And if you can't bring us there, then this _is_ reality," he deadpanned.

Sherlock stared at him, he was probably trying to move them.

"Not working? Well, doesn't surprise me. Dimming the light by mind didn't work either, in the palace, it should. Go on, gather intel why this is real. Try it, try to move around in your mind, try to manipulate your surroundings."

Sherlock's face showed surprise and he stared up at the light, he must be trying.

The microwave pinged and John went to get the warm pillow, then he returned to his trembling flatmate.

Sherlock was concentrating, but he wasn't really getting better. He should have calmed down as his mind tried to cling to reality.

John tried for another ten minutes to argue with his friend, but Sherlock was repeatedly dragged back to the dead man lying in the same room with him and drifted into panic mode repeatedly, it was not getting better. The longer it lasted, the surer John became that this was neither a 'normal' panic attack nor a 'normal' episode of dissociation, this was like the panic running wild and not slowing down.

When this had happened before, Sherlock had collected his wits sooner or later and had allowed John to assist, but this was different. Sherlock seemed more unguarded and open than during any other episode before and he was desperately trying but couldn't get a grip on the panic. Since he had improved much during the past weeks John found it even odder.

John heated up the grain pillow a second time, while he hurried to fetch Sherlock's phone.

"It's all broken. I…" Sherlock murmured and now John just went over, stopped turning things over in his mind and just acted, he knelt down in front of his friend, Sherlock had gone with what he started before, maybe he just needed to be bold.

Sherlock froze, pale and exhausted.

John placed the pillow in the back of his neck and without asking reached out and placed his right on Sherlock's hairline, pressing his thumb into his third eye point, this had worked before.

Sherlock blinked with surprise.

"You remember this touch? Smell the heated pillow, feel it's warmth. I am here, this is real. I will not leave you. I am real. Get out of your head and come back to me. I need you here. _Right now_."

The expression on Sherlock's face was so unreal and stunned for long seconds that John was close to panic himself for a moment.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was only a desperate whisper, "I lose the connection. Everything fades away, I am trapped in my… sensations. I'm losing my mind, going mad."

Liquid was building up in Sherlock's eyes and John wondered if the situation was getting out of his hands.

"Nonsense. Don't go there. Stay with me. Just stay with me. This will pass… Describe the sensations."

Sherlock nodded.

"Disconnected."

The doctor made sure he kept the physical contact; Sherlock hadn't moved away, not even tried to. Frantically, he wondered if he should call for help.

"That's probably the dissociation, it must be stirred up because we are working on it, just remember and hang on, it will pass. Please Sherlock, just hang on."

There was a long moment of silence and John started to massage the point on Sherlock's forehead, to ground him with the touch.

"I try to make myself believe that for over a week now. But it's constantly getting worse."

The detective tried a deeper breath, now obviously anxious to control his breathing.

John relaxed a bit, this meant Sherlock was at least aware of what was happening and able to understand he had gotten worse over the past days, which meant he was back in reality.

"You're back with me?"

Sherlock nodded minutely and some of the liquid spilled over and started running down his face, the desperation catching up with him, the trembling getting worse.

John moved his other hand to the detective's nape. He squeezed gently.

"You're okay. You're _not_ going mad. Describe what you sense?"

Usually, Sherlock was a reliable source and a quite accurate one when it came to describe things, the only problem was to translate it into 'normal people speech'.

"This… is different from what you called dissociation before," Sherlock pressed out and confirmed John's suspicion.

"In what way?"

"Before, it came in waves and it was _activated_ somehow, now it's always there. It's not coming in waves as before. The keynote of it has changed."

"What is 'it'?"

"I don't know. It is very hard to keep under control."

"This has started _days_ ago? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know it was relevant or what it was or… how am I supposed to tell you something when I have no words for it?"

"So it feels _that_ different?"

"I feel like a foreigner in my own mind, like I'm not myself. It is like the drug heightened panic in Baskerville, but constantly there and not diminishing. I'm going mad…"

"Shit," John cursed, when the conclusion finally hit him.

"Oh," Sherlock made simultaneously. They both had realised what this meant at the same moment.

"The meds?" The doctor started to check his friend over, his hand moved from the back of his neck to the pulse point and when Sherlock let his head fall forward John's other hand moved from his hairline to his shoulder to keep him from sagging forward.

"Let me get the leaflet."

"No need, this is not in there."

John had of course researched the drug thoroughly before prescribing it, even discussed it with Ella and later asked Winkelbach if he deemed it the right choice, but this was not among the usual side effects and it was nonsense to read the sheet of paper again.

"My brain is slow, I should have realised this before."

The doctor knew Sherlock often had odd reactions to medications, but nevertheless they had no experience with ADs and this was supposed to be mild on the side effect side.

"Have you had any of the 'normal' side effects?"

"The expected, constipation, dizziness, dry mucous membranes and so on," Sherlock mumbled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John tightened his grip around Sherlock's shoulder to underline the question.

"Because they were expected to happen and there was nothing you could do about it? Why bother?"

Sherlock leaned back and rested the back of his head against cabinet door. John lost contact but was able to see his eyes now.

"Right. Your reaction is atypical, I will research it, but the only way to make sure, is to stop taking them, if it gets better chances are high it was the medication."

"Then later take it again and see if it happens again."

"Er.. you really want to do that?"

"No, this is awful," Sherlock admitted, rubbing his face with his palms, his hands were still shaking.

"Right."

"Can you please spare me the indignity of calling my alienist in my presence."

It was the first time Sherlock called Winkelbach that. John assumed it was the way how his anger about himself manifested. He despised needing the man, insulted himself for needing him and the man for being the embodiment of his need.

"I trust him, and I want you to trust him, too. He is competent and he's really putting an effort into trying to help. He dealt with everything we have thrown at him and all our conditions. If you can't trust him directly then trust me that I put my trust in the right person."

"Trust by proxy?"

"Yeah," John smiled and let go of him.

Sherlock rubbed his face and stared at his wet hands for a moment, then moved the pillow a bit to be more comfortable.

John saw he was calming down a bit.

"I won't call him if we get a grip on this."

"We are, this is my body doing things to me," Sherlock stammered.

"But knowing where it comes from makes it easier to handle?"

Sherlock nodded, his breathing had slowed down. Obviously by marking this an ailment of his transport Sherlock had managed to handle this.

"I want to get up."

"Slow down, let me help."

Sherlock did. It took some effort from both of them until he finally managed to stand on shaky legs, he needed John's support when they shuffled over to the couch.

"You are hurt," Sherlock stated when John winced as he made sure Sherlock wouldn't fall.

"It's nothing," John assured him.

"I did that, didn't I?"

"Sherlock, you were not really aware and it's just bruises. It's fine."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock's tone was so sad John felt the odd need to comfort him.

"It's alright. We're gonna be fine."

He placed the grain pillow in Sherlock's hands after he had sat down and their gazes locked for a moment. Sherlock gave him a tired smile and John rested his hand on the other man's shoulder for a moment and nodded.

Message received.

And it was then that John understood something, too. Sherlock hadn't entrusted him with _the Fall_ and it still hurt, but he had entrusted him with this, now, which John was sure took a far greater leap of faith and reliance than going through with the theatrics of the fall and the hunt. Now Sherlock was trusting him with something more fragile and intimate, with his mind and his body.

.

They watched telly for the rest of the night and it took real effort for Sherlock not to slip back into full panic mode, they had a couple of moments when it became worse again, though. It was a very long night.

.

It took a week without the meds until Sherlock became obviously calmer and less irritable.

Winkelbach suggested another medication, but Sherlock insisted on discussing discontinuing the ADs since he was in therapy and overall handling it well. Winkelbach shared the latter point of view but disapproved of stopping the meds in general. But the unexpected and strong reaction also made him more careful.

It was the opposite of what should have happened and there weren't that many alternatives Sherlock would consider. He refused certain agents and ingredients in general, which already shortened the list considerably. After the recent events John understood fully why. On the other hand he couldn't even try to understand how Sherlock had coped by taking illegal drugs in the past, but Sherlock refused to explain.

In the end they decided to discontinue any medication and risked going without it. But only under the condition that if John and Winkelbach decided he needed to start something again he'd follow their lead.

.

It went well after that, Sherlock improved rapidly and their caseload increased with the weather, as if the criminals were coming out of winter dormancy.

With Mary, the three of them started planning the wedding, which kept Sherlock busy in the off-case time and was more of challenge than anyone had expected. The detective seemed to be completely clueless about the procedures and rituals. He had been to a high society wedding when he was a child but after that managed to circumvent such events.

Things slowly started to get better and a new kind of normality slipped in, the healing continued and Sherlock was getting better a bit every day.

...

* * *

...

_A/N:_

_That's it. _

_Hope you enjoyed it. _

_Please leave a review if you did._


	47. Chapter 47 - Author's note

**Author's notes / Thoughts about this story.**

This story accompanied me for 25 months and I mostly managed weekly updates (until the last three chapters which took ages because I was struggling hard). It is 442 word pages long, I never thought it would get this long and intense.

I posted the first chapter of part 1 on May 19, 2014. It was a long journey, with a lot of ups and downs. Several chapters were hard to write and wrapping all the stuff into a case that makes sense was also a challenge.

It also was a lot of work language-wise, especially since I am not a native speaker and it takes me thrice the time to check grammar and spelling.

But I hope you enjoyed reading it nevertheless and ignored the mistakes.

One thing about the reasons for Sherlock being so slow and so frustrated in my story, is based on how I sensed Sherlock's behaviour in TEH.

I was honestly a bit horrified about how he behaved, how slowly he reacted, how sentimental he often was and how 'soft' his behaviour was. It felt OOC, and I was afraid it would go on like this from now on.

I was _really_ glad when, at the end of the season, it had mostly vanished again and now assume it was of course all intentional, as usual.

I might add that I don't watch interviews or read about actor's lives or background or whatever, I'm just very grateful for the gifts they give us by doing what they do, giving life to characters.

So, I needed to figure out theories / reasons why Sherlock might behave like this, this story was partly my try/version to do that.

Another reason why I wrote this was me starting another bout of PTSD therapy, which in the end turned out to be very disappointing.

Though my therapist was a decent person, he was quite unmotivated and equipped with a bad memory.

So writing this turned once more into my own coping strategy, well, it was meant to.

I am very sorry this last chapter took so long. After the chapter before this I planned to just give the story an epilogue and be done with it, but then I had a very bad time for three weeks and it turned out to be caused by the meds I had just started to take (because I was worse after the therapy than before due to the unpacked but not handled issues).

The unexpected reactions were giving me a hard time, which peaked in hour-long panic attacks. Sherlock was a bit out of character here because the stuff made me out of character, it messed up my mind in quite a frightening way.

I stopped taking them in the end (with the support of my doctor) and I decided to put these experiences in here, too.

Usually I am ashamed and never talk about such things, probably why they find their way into my stories. I am not writing all this because I am trying to harvest pity, I am quite allergic to pity that is. I am telling this because I think it needs to be explained to be understood.

I hope that wasn't too much H/C in the end. I was insecure if it was a good idea to add this after the events with Mycroft, but finally just did it this way. I am still a bit nervous about it, it's quite close to home.

Special thanks to _Petergirl10_ who is doing a translation into Russian, I feel a bit bad that this turned out to be such a long story and am very grateful for her efforts! u/5923591/petergirl10

This story was an important companion during two eventful and rough years and I'm very grateful for everybody who stayed with me, followed, favourited and especially to those who took their time to gift me with feedback and reviews.

You guys are great and you helped me a lot.

Thank you so much for your support, it means a lot to me, more than I can express.

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